


The Paramour

by EvilPeaches



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All These Greyjoy's, Blood and Violence, Drama, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Abuse, It's gonna get messy, Jealousy, Love Triangles, M/M, More tags to be added, Obsession, Opium, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pirates, Power Dynamics, Regency Era - AU, Submission, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Sparring, mentions of torture, rating to definitely increase
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29569311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilPeaches/pseuds/EvilPeaches
Summary: Sansa's mother prepares her early on that marriages of duty and convenience often lead to the swift acquisition of paramours. Sansa's loveless marriage to Ramsay Bolton is certainly no different.What Sansa's motherdid notprepare her for is how she's expected to handle the realization that her lawfully wedded husband also wants her lover for his own.Between the two of them, Theon Greyjoy doesn't stand a chance._______________________________The Regency AU that no one ever asked for, but it's what you get.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Sansa Stark, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 79
Kudos: 84





	1. Married, but Not for Love

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters or Game of Thrones. 
> 
> **AN:** Yep. Shit is getting weird. I wrote a mix up of Regency / kinda sorta Pirate AU. Probably more in line with the Georgian era (which contains the Regency era). Don't come for me if I make a mistake or two, it's bound to happen, and some liberties will be taken. Anywho. This features The Ramster and Sansa married, both stepping out on each other due to the loveless nature of their union. Sansa cares not where Ramsay spends his time, and frankly he wouldn't give a care about what she does either until- well. You'll see. 
> 
> This fic will probably be a little longer, maybe some slow burn aspects chucked in, who can say? I like my twisty love triangles and really wanted to delve into the theme of, oh look, married couple, who don't like each other, want the same man, in a time period where two men together is utterly taboo. How does this work? Big OOOOoooooOO.

They don’t marry for love and it’s nothing to cry about. Most people rarely marry for something as fickle as _love_.

At least, not amongst the nobility in the North. Perhaps the commonfolk in the lower city, full of smog and filth and decay, maybe _they_ marry for love. Mayhap they marry for a simple touch, a kiss, a presentation of field-picked flowers. _What a concept_ , Sansa thinks. _How strange indeed_.

Love is for family, but to apply it to another person, in a romantic sense, is deeply a foreign concept.

A lady’s place is to _marry well_ , to a lord or duke of suitable standing, good character (if possible), tolerable temperament, and strong connections. To have children. Advise the household staff and orchestrate fine events as a lovely hostess. Her _place_ is to be a credit to her family and nothing more, nothing less. It neither thrills nor does it dismay Sansa Stark.

As was typical for a lady of her standing, Sansa barely knew Ramsay Bolton, aside from his infamous reputation. He wasn’t her father’s first choice, not even his second, but Sansa _really_ didn’t want to go with either of those options.

The first had been Joffrey Baratheon, who lived far from her home, a Prince in the South. He was pretty, _certainly_. Maybe _too_ pretty. That wasn’t the problem and Sansa gleaned far too much of life in the South after her father and mother sent her to learn for a summer under Cersi Baratheon née Lannister. It was an effort to make Sansa a more desirable match for her society debut, her ‘coming out’, but honestly all it did was show Sansa that she absolutely wanted nothing to do with Joffrey or his viper of a mother. Joffrey himself was vain and selfish, an utterly spoiled brat that would expect any wife to treat him the way his mother did.

Sansa wasn’t looking to be anyone’s mother and she certainly wasn’t traveling that far away from her family, her roots, just to be a mother to a man who already had one. Out of the question, collect five coins, move right on. _Directly, sir_.

Truthfully, Sansa’s mental scars had become deep after spending that summer with the golden Cersi and her horrid, catty court. After returning to the North, Sansa never told her mother about her terrible, unpleasant treatment at the hands of the Southern Queen. Too ashamed, too confused, wondering what had gone _wrong_.

She became stronger for it, as it were. Thicker skin and little trust, for no one could be as ruthless as the Lannister and Baratheon household.

Ned Stark’s second _oh so brilliant_ choice had been her cousin, a young sickly boy named Robin Arryn. Sansa clearly remembers telling her father with whining exasperation, _“He still suckles at his mother’s teat, father! Be reasonable!”_

_With his typical frown, her father had replied, “Your choices are growing thin, Sansa.”_

_“Well, I don’t bloody care!”_

And thus, the third choice was born.

Ramsay Bolton, the legitimized bastard son of Roose Bolton. Heir to the Lordship of the Dreadfort. An estate not far from home, not far from Sansa’s family. Ramsay wasn’t terribly young nor was he old, he was similar in age and that was fine enough. He had a rakish appeal, with a distinctly sharp grin and flashy eyes, accompanied by fine sideburns and modest facial hair.

Oh, sure, Sansa had heard things about him, prior to their marriage, but then again, who hadn’t? People still whispered the word _bastard_ under their breath when they were certain he’d never hear. His family held charge of the prison, the great stone fort that loomed over the city. Its stone walls were built to hold upwards of three hundred prisoners, and that was only what was above ground.

Apparently, there was an underground dungeon for those to ‘disappear mysteriously’ before their trial. Some nobles were always open to slipping Bolton some gold to take out a mouthy commoner, someone who knew too much for their own good.

Sansa had heard of all of this and more and still she agreed with her father’s third choice, even though she had heard rumor that Bolton was a beast masquerading as a gentleman. If only she had truly understood what that meant, back then.

There was no courtship.

Ramsay Bolton and Sansa Stark don’t marry for love.  
  
  


* * *

* * *

  
  


Most of nobility takes on lovers, sometime after marriage. Catelyn Stark had been sure to inform Sansa of this, just prior to her wedding, as if to console her. Sansa would have liked to claim she were perfectly innocent of these matters, but she had _seen things in the South_.

Her mother gently told her that it wasn’t unusual for those in marriages of convenience to find a paramour to ease the dullness of their lives. _You must be discreet. A lady is always discreet,_ Catelyn Stark had warned her. _A lady can never fix a ruined reputation_.

Sansa had wanted to roll her eyes, because Catelyn had been fortunate to fall in love with Ned Stark after their own ‘marriage of convenience’.

“What are you lost in thought about?”

Her brooding memories are interrupted by her current host, Margaery Tyrell. Sansa pulls herself into the present and attempts to brighten. It doesn’t do well to dwell on the past two years. She’s in Margaery’s lovely tea garden, surrounded by beauty and peace. She shouldn’t be dampening her own spirit with such darkness. She gets enough of that at home, from _her husband_. 

“Apologies, Margaery. I get so easily distracted when surrounded by all this loveliness. It’s dreadfully absent at the Dreadfort, as you know.”

The other woman makes a face of distaste. “A pity to hide such a pretty rose such as yourself in so dark a place. How are things getting on?”

Displeasure and anxiety beat in Sansa’s heart. “Well, Roose is certainly displeased that I haven’t grown with child yet. It certainly isn’t for lack of trying, as distasteful as the act is.” She leans forward to whisper, least some servant overhears. “Perhaps if Ramsay spent less time spilling his seed elsewhere-”

“He’s already getting around? Color me surprised,” Margaery Tyrell utters with a roll of her eyes. Her hat is lovely and large, protecting her from the sun. A lady _must always_ protect her delicate skin.

Their parasols sit beside their seats, unused, but ready to be opened to protect against the harsh sunlight. Hats and fancy parasols are _all the rage_ these days.

Sansa sips her tea, glancing around subtly. The walls have ears and this conversation is quite ill-becoming for young women, married or not. “I rather don’t care one wit. Ramsay will find me in my room at night for a brief copulation-”

Margaery giggles like a beautiful bell. “Copulation? Blessed heavens, what a sterile word!”

Weary, Sansa places her delicate teacup down once again. “What else should I call it? He’s overly rough, I don’t enjoy it, I count the minutes down until it’s over. The bruising, the biting, he’s _strangled me_ before. He’s got some lowborn peasant girl that he sees occasionally, to my knowledge. She’s into that sort of thing and I say, _good for her_.”

Her friend looks bothered by this information, though at the same time no one expected Ramsay Bolton to be straight-laced in the bedroom. Not with his proclivities in his hellish prison. “A pity, though what can be expected from a former bastard? It must be his lowborn blood. Can’t hide from that, no matter a fancy paper that says he’s legitimized.” Margaery pauses. “Say. Aren’t you concerned about a bastard being born? _I would be_. No need to be usurped by some common tramps spawn.”

Oh, Sansa isn’t too concerned. “It would be pretty hard for him to manage that, the way he takes her. I caught them once, in the kennels. It was quite educating and I’m glad he has her.”

Margaery’s lovely face lights with gossip intrigue. “Oh my. You don’t mean he…in the-?”

Nodding, Sansa says coolly. “Indeed. Hard to get knocked up that way- or so I hear.”

They both laugh drily before settling. A servant comes and serves them some lemon cakes and soft pastries. Both women wait until the servant walks away before continuing their lurid conversation. “And what about you, little bird? What fun has my dear friend gotten up to these lonely days?” Margaery asks. “You’ve seemed…distracted. As of late. Is there… _someone_?”

Sansa’s heart does a little nervous flip. Bites her lip as she considers her words. “Do you…do you remember Theon Greyjoy?”

Margaery’s head tilts slightly, eyes narrowed in thought. “Greyjoy? The family name that’s plagued with an abundance of pirates?! He spent some time in prison for that, didn’t he?”

“He was acquitted,” Sansa defends sharply. “His uncle and brothers were flying the Jolly Roger. Apparently, a man can be considered guilty by association, if one’s family comes home to roost, however briefly. He’s a Lieutenant, now, in the Royal Navy. Lieutenant Theon Greyjoy.”

Tongue busy in her cheek, a knowing look creeps into Margaery’s gaze. “A boy with eyes like the open sea. I remember him now. He was quite arrogant, wasn’t he? Outspoken? I thought you didn’t like that type.”

“He’s not like that. He’s _changed_. He’s…different. I’ve known him since childhood, as it were. I’ve always been…well, I’ve always been fond of him.”

Margaery is giving her a thin smile. “Aw. Are you in love?”

Is she? Not in the normal sense. Sansa feels affection, a familial sort of love for Theon. It isn’t mad and wild, it isn’t the sort where she can’t go a day without thinking of him. No. Nothing so _desperate_ as all that. Not like the fairy tales and love poems that permeate their loveless society. He is her comfort, her shield against the storm. Their minds and their thoughts entangle, not just their bodies. Sometimes, they don’t…they don’t have physical intimacy at all. Sometimes, they lie in each other’s arms and stare at the sky, holding hands, lost in their thoughts.

It’s not passionate, romantic love. It’s calm, protective. It’s all Sansa needs and wants.

She’s known Theon forever. Her father fostered him, after all. She’s known him since he was boy, since he started chasing skirts, getting himself into all sort of unreputable trouble, quite ruining his marriage prospects even at a young age. He changed, after his incarceration in the Bolton prison and something changed between _them_.

There was a lack of self-worth, his arrogance stripped from his being. She remembers how their eyes met across a garden stroll and she felt that his soul looked as lonely and weary as hers. And, not for the first time, she wanted him, wanted to hear about his hidden pain, wanted him to know hers.

After she secured herself a marriage, well, she took her mother’s advice. _Discreetly_.

“We have a healthy respect and adoration for each other,” she replies carefully.

“Hm. So, are you…are you sleeping with him? Is it true what they say? About his skills?”

Sansa throws her head back and laughs. “I’ve tasted his charms and decided I’m keeping him. Take that for what it is, Margaery.”

“Oh, I will.”

They wrap up their conversation as Margaery’s dear brother, Loras, appears. Always wearing the height of fashion, in clothing and hair, he approaches them with a certain radiance. “Ladies!” He inclines his head and gives a little bow. “Fancy taking the air with me about the grounds? I humbly seek some company.”

Margaery’s smile is wide and genuine, her adoration for her brother clear as she and Sansa stand, linking arms. “We’d love to, oh, gallant Loras. Be a dear and protect us from the garden fairies.”

He replies with a wicked smirk, “I can make no promises on that account.”

The teasing look on Margaery’s face only deepens. “Oh, so we can be expecting Renly to appear this afternoon?”

Loras shoots his sister a warning look and Sansa doesn’t question it.

Some things are better left unsaid and never spoken aloud…and Loras’ mostly well-hidden proclivities are no different.   
  
  


* * *

* * *

  
  
As with every morning, Ramsay and Sansa eat their breakfast in relative silence. Sansa is glad for that, because Ramsay has a wicked, sharp tongue. Their first year of marriage, she often struggled to hold back tears at the table, but once she figured out how much he enjoyed that, she made a distinct effort to stop with the wilting flower routine.

Indifference is a better weapon.

Now that they are well into their second year, Sansa has found her own way of dealing with him. A balance, of sorts, has been struck.

He’s kissed her a grand total of _once_. Their wedding day actually, which seems so long ago. Once and not ever since.

Not that she’s bothered by this; it’s not like she _wants_ to kiss him. She’s more afraid of his teeth, quite honestly, because the horrid scoundrel _bites hard_. She’d hate for him to apply that to her mouth, a wound for everyone to see.

Ramsay Bolton isn’t a sentimental man and kissing is likely attached to emotion and weakness in his mind. Interestingly enough, Sansa has been around the Bolton household long enough to see behind the curtain with him, to see the hints of insecurity that plague him. The way his own father treats him.

His overconfidence and cruelty are part of him overcompensating. Sansa wonders if it stems from his time as an unwanted bastard child, having a mother who threw him away at the first chance she could. Who can say? In truth, Sansa thinks that if he were to kiss someone, to _truly_ kiss someone, it would _mean something_. It would be dramatic; it would be because he wants to lay his own heart on the ground for that person and promptly stomp on it. Something outrageous and bloody and dangerous. Something absurdly _grotesque_.

Sansa does not inspire these feelings in him, nor he in her.

Besides, kissing is what she has Theon for. Soft nothings in the dark, whenever he comes home from sea. The taste of saltwater and rain on his tongue, his gentle hands about her waist. She takes a moment to daydream as she chews on her buttered toast, to think of the way Theon holds her, like she’s precious glass, the way he listens to her thoughts-

Ramsay breaks their usual silence quite suddenly. “Thinking of the stableboy, are we, dear wife?”

Sansa blinks, realizing her cheeks are warm and that she’s been staring out the window vacantly. Glancing at her husband, she meets his icy grey eyes, a gaze that is full of mocking. “If you’re asking about _our_ stableboy, the answer is unequivocally _no_. Are you disappointed?”

Their ‘stableboy’ is in his late sixties.

“People talk.” He flashes his charming grin that sends most people into a nervous sweat. He’s unpredictable, talks in circles just to watch one make a wrong step. “People think you’ve been seeing someone.”

“ _People_ should mind their damn business.”

He sits back in his chair with his brow raised in amusement at her sharpness, eyes wide and laughing. “ _Woof_. Such _language_ is unbefitting a lady of your esteemed breeding! I was only worried for your well-being, after all. I have my own fun…seems only natural that you’d also…have something on the side.”

Sansa is well aware that he’s prying. Her mind carefully picks his intent apart, trying to figure out what he wants to hear and what he doesn’t. Mind games; he loves playing them. Sometimes, Sansa is willing to play. Sometimes, like now, she’s not.

“Are you asking if I bend someone over in a filthy kennel and take them in their unmentionables? I don’t, no need to fear, dear husband. I’ve yet to find a man who will let me do such a thing, willingly, but I’ll keep searching, just for _you_.” It’s a dig at him and his common girl, the one he buggers.

She’s become quite crude, being married to him these past two years. He’s changed her and made her bitter and vile. Hateful. Sansa almost enjoys it, being able to let loose ugly emotions behind closed doors.

Ramsay chuckles a bit under his breath, amused. He’s sipping wine, even though it’s so early in the day. He’s dressed in his finely tailored double-breasted tailcoat, black as night, like his hair and his heart. At his throat is his pale cravat, artfully knotted. His dueling pistol resides openly at his hip, alongside his favorite dagger, adorned with a ruby in its hilt. “I know you think what I do with my whore is quite shocking. You have such a sensitive heart. Never fear, she has her uses, though they are very, _very_ few. A simple way to get off. A hole to use fast and hard.”

He’s absolutely sickening and Sansa almost pities the young woman in question. She makes a face at him, just to make sure he knows what she thinks of him.

“I truly, _utterly_ could care less what you do with that ill-fated girl.”

There’s a lull in conversation. He’s souring her breakfast and Sansa feels quite resentful. She likes it much better when he keeps his mouth shut. She’s not in the mood for a verbal spar, not this early. Their verbal battles can be entertaining and sometimes she finds them fun. She’s never come across such an abhorrent man in all her life, but honestly, it’s almost refreshing compared to all the uptight stiffs at court.

Refreshing and equally terrifying. It’s like willingly caging herself with a bear.

His face goes blank for a few moments, the scary sort of blank that he pulls off at the drop of a hat. Sometimes, Sansa’s quite sure he’s literally vacant of true human emotion, that he simply copies what he sees. A mimic of sorts. A terrifying mimic, void of morality and common decency.

She’s almost not shocked when his face suddenly brightens, like a lantern being lit by flame. He points at her gleefully with his butter knife. “ _You_ never answered my inquiry, dear wife. Who have you been sneaking around with? I promise, I don’t care. So long as you don’t get yourself knocked up. I’d have to cut a bastard out of you, I’m sure you know.” He falsely pouts, makes a sawing gesture with the blunt silverware. “That could get messy.”

Her stomach turns violently. She tries not to tremble, her eyes briefly feeling hot. He's trying to goad her into something and this proves it; he _knows_ better than to say such things to her face. Sansa grits her teeth and feels her grasp on her fork tighten. “I have my dalliances, you have yours. Everyone is _happy_.”

“So, you are cuckholding me! Dear wife,” he sneers at her, eyes alight with that awful vicious glee. “How scandalizing. Delightfully _devious_.”

“Hm.” _I’m growing bored with this conversation,_ Sansa thinks.

“Does he whisper sweet nothings to you? Make you feel special? I know I neglect you quite terribly, but I don’t think you want my affection, fake or not. It’s only natural you seek solace elsewhere. I _understand_.”

She certainly does not want Ramsay’s affection in any form. He’s attempting to goad her into something and Sansa _is not_ amused. She quite wants to smash her plate on his face. She’s done so before and the caning she got was utterly worth it.

“You’re a child, Ramsay.” Sansa snaps, glowering across the table at him. “You bore me. Please get out of my hair before I say something we both regret. Go play your nasty little games elsewhere.”

He smirks, makes his way around the table to bury his hand into her scalp hard. He tugs roughly, just to see her wince in pain. Then, he sighs dramatically and says, “I love when you give me lip, dear wife. Makes me want to tear yours off.” He snaps his teeth at her, making a clicking noise, like a hunting hound snapping at a hare. At her horrified expression, he shrugs and tries to play it off, even though his eyes are drinking in her fear. “Oh, you thought I was serious? _Sansa_. Silly girl, my father has warned me about behaving that way with you. You know this. I’d _never_ hurt you.”

Feeling cold, Sansa clamps her mouth shut and says no more. There’s danger in his cruel gaze now, daring her to push him further.

“Good girl,” he says mockingly, letting go of her red hair. He dons his top hat and gives her a disarming grin, as if nothing is amiss, strutting off in his shiny tall boots and pale breeches.

She doesn’t let go of her breath until he’s out the front door, off to check in on the prison, full of unfortunate souls.

He’s a liar, her husband is. A very good one.  
  
  


* * *

* * *

  
  
They don’t always go to balls, not lately. They went during the early days of their marriage, to show face. Also, probably so no one would wonder if Ramsay had murdered her.

As it were, Sansa often goes alone, especially to balls at her father’s estate. No one is upset when she doesn’t bring her husband. In fact, she’s always happier going to social events without him. He grows bored and mentally tired, wearing a nice mask in the face of society. Being nice and normal is excessively exhausting for him.

Sansa is married to a monster and she’s long accepted that. She’s adjusted, she’s _adaptable_.

Tonight, Margaery Tyrell is hosting the ball, her gardens lit with true beauty around her grandmother’s estate. Everyone loves a party at the Tyrell’s; the food is always wonderful and the wine plenty. Sansa finds herself with Ramsay at her side and she wishes he wasn’t. They arrive by carriage, silent most of the way.

He fiddles with his pistol in a manner that makes her nervous the majority of the ride. She has half a mind to slap it out of his hand, but then he’d likely start twiddling with his dagger and that’s even _worse_. When they pull up to the Tyrell estate, Sansa nearly throws herself out of the carriage, gasping for fresh air.

Pretending to be a gentleman, Ramsay offers her his arm and smiles. “Aren’t you just lovely?”

“How charming you are,” Sansa replies drily, lifting her head, making sure to look confident and poised on his arm. Appearances in public are _everything_ , and even if she has little power in her own household, she can at least look like she does.

“Aren’t you lucky to have such an amiable husband?”

 _Ugh_. He’s pressing his luck now, just trying to verbally knife her and ruffle her feathers before they even speak to a single person. He even does this in the bedroom, hissing awful things at her while he ruts between her thighs, just to pester her further. Sansa knows how to play her part and her voice is terribly false as she says, “I’m the most fortunate woman there is.”

He beams with sadistic glee.

Their names are announced to the hall, as is tradition. Everyone gets announced as they enter a noble affair such as this. Some people glance up and make their acknowledgements, been many others just continue drinking, dancing, and laughing. Oblivious to announcements and generally uncaring.  
  
It’s time to move on, to join the socializing, and Sansa takes a step forward, anticipating their path. However, her husband is rooted in his spot, unmoving like a rock. Sansa frowns up at him, confused, because they’ve already been announced, they need to get out of the way for the next arrivals behind them.

“Ramsay…” she hisses with embarrassment, _because what is he doing_?

He’s staring at something, completely oblivious to everything and _this is not typical_ for her very sharp husband.

Following his gaze, Sansa feels her heart tighten, seeing Lieutenant Greyjoy in his pristine naval uniform, standing across the ballroom. The uniform is a deep dark blue, adorned with different medals, tightly tailored to his slim male form. Theon is holding an ale, smiling and laughing with her brother Robb, looking rather dashing, his smile wide and blinding.

Her stomach flutters.

It’s out of the ordinary to see Theon at such an affair; he’s usually at sea. He’s at sea more than he’s on land, this past year. Sneaking around his schedule and hers has been a nightmare. She didn’t expect to see him tonight.

Theon’s wearing his thick gloves, the ones that hide the fact that he’s lost two of his fingers, but Sansa knows they’re gone. She’s felt the empty spaces against her warm thighs, when they lie down together. For a brief moment of terror, she wonders if Ramsay knows that Theon is her paramour outside their marriage.

_Is that why he’s staring at him? Has he figured it out so soon?_

But the look on his face isn’t…it isn’t the face he wears when he’s thinking of harming someone. It isn’t the look of a jealous, homicidal husband.

To her surprise, his pupils are widely dilated and his throat is working under his cravat. Sansa stares at him, and stares some more, feeling her mouth drop open slightly, astounded.

When she realizes that Ramsay’s clearly not able to focus on his own feet, not able to focus on _anything_ , Sansa rescues them both and walks them out of the receiving entryway, into the milling crowd of the ballroom, using her strength to pull her seemingly starstruck husband along.

Ramsay’s pulse is fluttering madly in his wrist, where she’s gripping him.

 _What on earth is going on with him? I’m the one sleeping with Theon and even I don’t have such a response!_ Sansa doesn’t know what to think.

She opens her mouth to say something to him, but another person beats her to it.

“Ramsay! You scoundrel, there you are!” Locke is coming over to join them and Sansa almost sags in relief. He’ll keep Ramsay occupied and she can go mingle with more polite company. He’ll snap him out of this unusual funk he’s spiraled into. “I haven’t seen your devious mug at one of these things for an age, old boy. Not enough screaming, I do say.”

He doesn’t acknowledge Sansa, usually never does. He’s a rude man, Locke, of the lower nobility. Barely one at all, really. Ramsay has friends in low places, always has. Sansa eyeballs his doeskin-colored tailcoat with distaste. It doesn’t do anything for his complexion and someone should tell him. She won’t.

Ramsay jerks out of…whatever his problem was…and grins at Locke, clasping his arm. “My work keeps me busy.”

Chuckling, the odious man replies, “But is it really work when you have so much fun _doing it_?”

 _They’re talking about torturing people_ , Sansa thinks, disgusted. Disengaging herself from Ramsay, she excuses herself quickly, neither man caring for her absence. She has other people to mingle with, more socially acceptable people, as it were. 

The ballroom is a mirage of lovely dresses, perfectly curled hair, perfumes, and hand fans.

Theon glances at her and their eyes meet. She can tell by the way that his body turns in her direction that he wants to come to her immediately, but knows it wouldn’t be acceptable. It would be too obvious. No, Sansa must socialize with other people first, must dance with other men.

Though she’d love to be by his side right this very moment, until the end of the night, being discreet is her creed.

So, mingle she does. Joins all the right conversations, dances with all the right people. As the hour grows late, she smells the sea wash over her and she turns with a smile on her face, knowing Theon is just behind her, his hand out and expectant.

“Lady Bolton,” he says smoothly, eyes bright. “May I have this dance?”

Pretending that she’s thinking it over, Sansa slowly places her dainty hand in his. “I suppose you may, Lieutenant Greyjoy.”

He sweeps her away, in a whirl of fabric and perfume. They dance well together and Sansa is well aware that they look like a fabulous couple, so in tune as they glide about the floor. Ramsay isn’t one for dancing, but Theon grew up in her household and all young men of noble breeding should know how to dance suitably.

Oh, Theon looks dashing in his uniform. Sansa never grows tired of seeing him in it. She wants to fold against him, to press fully against his body, but that would be positively indecent. This is the closest they can get in the public eye.

She wants to pour out her hidden miseries and sorrows, fill in her lonely self with him.

“I’m pleasantly surprised to see you ashore,” she converses with him. “I’d thought you’d be gone for a while longer.”

He pulls a face after his eyes catch on something behind her, only briefly before they twist and turn around the lovely ballroom floor. “L-lord Bolton seems displeased. He’s watching us. Did you know?”

There’s a slight stutter in his voice when he mentions her husband, but he covers it up well enough. Sansa places no thought to it; Theon is no fan of Ramsay Bolton. That naturally comes after having been in his prison before.

Though…she doesn’t know much about what happened while he was imprisoned.

Since he’s mentioned it, Sansa feels eyes upon them and glances over Theon’s shoulder, feeling her heart freeze at the sight of her husband gazing at them with a sick expression on his face.

If she didn’t know better, she’d think him terribly jealous.

Looking back up at Theon, she rolls her eyes. “He’s out of sorts tonight. Just ignore him.”

Because truly, it’s absurd! Ramsay wouldn’t be jealous of another man dancing with her, he barely finds her tolerable even at home! Sure, he’s _attracted_ to her, he doesn’t complain about her body, has called her a _fine woman_ , but he doesn’t feel a damn thing for her, nor she for him.

A strange thought comes to mind and she wonders if he’s jealous of _her_.

_But, that would mean…_

Trying not to dwell on it, trying to not let her appalling husband ruin this lovely dance for her, Sansa smiles up at Theon, wanting to drown in his lovely sea-green eyes. He smiles back, soft and hesitant, hand tightening on her trim waist.

Spinning, gliding across the dancefloor. Like a fairytale. The world spins and shifts around them and Sansa can almost pretend that she’s a princess. Sadly, it can only last for so long and the songs come to an end.

Theon leans down to whisper in her ear as they stand amongst the other dancers. The scent of sea air fills Sansa’s senses. His voice is low, sensual. “Will I see you before I ship out next week?”

It feels like her spine is on fire and Sansa tries not to think of her husband glowering at her. Theon is oh so close and she focuses on the sad fact that he’s shipping out again. “You’re leaving so soon? Already? You just got back, Theon. _I’ve missed you_.” She barely utters the last bit, least someone hear.

Though he’s not indecently close, anyone with a nose for gossip can see the way their bodies lean towards each other, the easy way lovers have around each other. “I know. I feel the same. It’s unexpected. It will only be for two weeks this time.”

She sighs and nods. “I’ll figure it out. We can meet at my father’s estate. The grounds are dense. So many…hiding places.”

He grins at her rakishly and leans low over her hand, his lips pressing firmly to it.

Sansa feels her face heat, thinking of the way he kisses her between her legs.

Slowly, he steps away from her, melting into the crowd.  


* * *

  
Later, when they walk to their carriage, Ramsay’s hand is tight around her wrist. Painfully so.

Dread pools in her belly.

He helps her up into their red and black carriage, sitting across from her with a stormy expression on his face. Ramsay yells for their driver to depart, the harshness of his voice causing Sansa to flinch. The carriage jerks into motion as the horses march forward.

Ramsay is staring holes into her face, like he wants to flay her alive and wear her skin for a cape. She thinks of his dagger and feels herself shudder. He’s in a dangerous mood.

“Are you sleeping with that Greyjoy slime?”

Trying to remain calm, Sansa replies, “That depends; are you going to hurt him for it?”

Nose flaring, jaw tightly clenched, Ramsay looks away from her, hands fisted on his thighs.

Seeing his reaction, Sansa sighs with exasperation. “What does it matter to you, Ramsay?”

She can practically hear his teeth grinding!

“It _doesn’t_.” Then. “How long has this been going on?”

Sighing, Sansa debates how she answers. “Months. Nearly a year.”

He growls, low and bestial. “Oh, I see. That entitled, wannabe pirate gets released from incarceration and finds his comfort in your loving arms. Do you make him feel _special_ , is that it? Spread you legs for him and let him slake his thirsts upon you? Do you make him feel like he _matters_? As if he’s better than a dog? Perhaps he just takes you like a bitch in heat and maybe you enjoy it that way-”

This is getting out of control and Sansa has half a mind to shove her slippers in his vile mouth. “Why are you acting so jealous? This isn’t like you-”

“I’m not.” His reply is too fast, stiff and sulky.

“You might not be able to see it, being that it’s quite dark, but my eyeballs are rolling right out of their sockets. Directly.” Sansa replies drily as she stares at him from across the carriage. “Can you be any more obvious? You _are_ jealous. I caught you looking at him. Multiple times.”

“Oh, am I not allowed to look around the room? Tell me more rules _you have for me_ , Lady Bolton. I’m waiting with bated breath. You worthless sow.”

Sansa mentally smirks while keeping a calm expression; she’s got him in a corner, as it were. The more insulting he gets, the more threatened he feels. She presses that to her advantage.

“Do you want him? Is that the problem?” Sansa says the words so quietly that she’s not even sure that she actually said them. She knows Theon is averse to Ramsay, after having been in his prison before. He’s afraid of Ramsay. She can’t help but wonder what happened during his brief imprisonment, because that is surely the only occasion he and Ramsay would have truly spent any time together. “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t like that I have something you want! You don’t like the fact that my affair, were it aired, would simply be considered distasteful, yet if you had an affair with him would be considered _absolutely perverse_. Your father would disown you. _Without a thought_.”

Silence, full of loathing.

Then, Sansa yelps loudly in pain as he backhands her sharply.

“You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand.” He’s giving her a hateful look, hackles raised, eyes like winter wastelands. If he’s on the defensive, it means she’s struck a nerve. “Why would I want a sniveling rat like Theon Greyjoy? A pirate-loving lowlife that masquerades as if he’s something better? His fancy uniform _can’t hide what he truly is_.” He sneers at her, gripping her chin hard between his fingers. “Why would I want _a man_ when I have plenty of cunt to slam through? Bloody hell, it’s almost like you don’t even think before you speak.”

The vitriol spilling from his mouth isn’t unexpected, but it’s suitably vicious. Sansa can almost attribute it to the fact that perhaps she insulted him by insinuating he prefers cock to a wet sheath. It’s deeply frowned upon, same-sex relationships. Reputation ruining scandals. If she didn’t know him, it would be easy to attribute his outrage to her insinuating he’s a social deviant.

Well, _he is_ , but that’s beside the point.

The fact of the matter is, she _does_ know him. She knows how he hides insecurities behind a wall of violence. She knows how he looked at Theon, how his heart raced, how his stomach must have filled with heat. Sansa just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

“Oh, husband.” Her voice is a sigh, exasperated. “You are such a good liar.”

It’s so obvious to her, so obvious if she were to examine his reaction upon seeing Theon at the ball.

Roughly letting go of her face, Ramsay gives her a terrifying look, full of warning and murder. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your stupid cow mouth shut. Don’t mention this again. If you do-”

Sansa feels his dagger against her throat and her heart drops.

“-I’ll gut you like a pig and find myself a new bride. You are not irreplaceable. _Do we understand each other_?”

Voice shaky, Sansa breathes out, “Yes, husband.”

Giving her a sickly grin, Ramsay replies with false brightness, “Good. I’m so glad.”

The rest of the ride home, Sansa finds herself staring numbly out the window, watching the passing landscape, the stars overhead.

Her mother told her about marriage of convenience. About having a discreet paramour.

It’s a shame her mother couldn’t have prepared her for _this_.

Sansa’s husband isn’t mad that she’s seeing a secret lover. _He’s mad because he wants her lover for his own_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Comments and kudos are loved! ♥
> 
> Yes, I know. Naughty me, starting another WIP. However, between the two of them, I already have other chapters mostly plotted and written out, so I'm not too worried LOL. More stories is better than no stories, I say!
> 
> Seriously, where the fuck did this Regency bullshit come from, I hella don't know, people.
> 
>  **AWESOME FANART ALERT:** Everyone, stop what you're doing and go look at [kay_100's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_100/pseuds/kay_100) absolutely STUNNING fanart for this AU. It's lit. It's gorgeous. I'm in love with it to the moon and back. [Go look on Tumblr](https://vkayv.tumblr.com/image/643659802121273344).


	2. Bloodhound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN:** Featuring sulky Ramsay, buried in his own denials T.T

Life is different for a man long viewed as the unacknowledged bastard son of a Lord. Undeserving of title or land. Not set to inherit even the most squalid of estates. Ramsay Bolton is acknowledged as Roose Bolton’s legitimate heir, but things were not always so.

Certainly not.

He doesn’t like to dwell on those days, the days when he was looked down on, spat on. Viewed as nothing better than a worm to be crushed under a well-fashioned boot. All the lords and ladies that looked down their noses at him with distaste. All because he’d been born from a common mother, who’d had the misfortune of being _pretty enough_.

The woman who spawned Ramsay hadn’t known what to do with him. In fact, Ramsay’s certain she loathed him the minute he was pushed out of her womb. His eyes, the famously cold Bolton eyes. She probably looked at him and saw his father, the man who raped her.

She’d had a quick fist and boot, if Ramsay recalls his early childhood correctly. Oh, the broom! Can’t forget being beaten by that bloody thing as a small boy. The bitch that birthed him had been a bitter creature, and her anger towards him manifested in all sorts of violent ways.

At least, _heh_ , until he grew too big. Too strong. A little too…what was the word she called him? _Monstrous_. The way he skinned the deer outside their home, making sure to hold eye contact with her just a tad bit too long, the way he left her cat dead for the roaming hounds, or maybe even the terrifying look in his eye when he told her that he’d rip her limb from limb if she dared to raise a hand to him again.

When she grew too terrified of having him in her meager, slovenly household, she’d brought him before Roose and begged him to take his bastard off her hands. Interestingly enough, Roose took him in, only as his unacknowledged son, still with no title or legitimacy. He put him to work running his prison, doing the dirty, lowly work for the Bolton household. It was easy to see what Ramsay was good at, after all.

Eventually, Roose publicly acknowledged Ramsay as his heir, providing him with all the benefits that entailed, whether Ramsay deserved it or not. It seemed Roose Bolton was desperately in need of a male heir, as it were.

As a lord, Ramsay’s not actually expected to single handedly run _anything_. Not anymore, anyway. Certainly not the prison, full of miscreants and unfortunates. In fact, his father has made it known on multiple occasions that his continued involvement in the daily on-goings in the odious pit of hell is unseemly for a man of his status.

 _Hypocritical old scrub_ , Ramsay thinks, scowling at the ragged stone wall in his office at the prison. Roose Bolton had been singing a much different tune, back in the early days before he legitimized Ramsay.

_“You should be pleased to contribute to this family in any fashion. Your lowly birth is a blemish on our name. Regardless; I’ll allow you to run the Dreadfort Prison. The world will always need ditch-diggers.”_

His lowly birth being called ‘a blemish’ on the Bolton name always incensed him. As if it were his fault his father had raped his mother.

Certainly, Ramsay could appoint one of his men to continue with the administrative work. _Certainly_. But _why_? Why, when he so enjoys digging his fingers into bloody wounds? Why give it up when he likes listening to the way people scream? His father made him into the overlord of this hellhole and just because Roose Bolton wants him to change now, doesn’t mean Ramsay ever will.

No, Ramsay has quite embraced being a monster. _Enjoys it_. Enjoys the power it brings him. It gets him hard to see all the Lords piss themselves in fear at the very sight of him, the same Lords who always sneered and looked down at him before he bore the surname ‘Bolton’. The ones who spat on his feet, who called him a filthy whoreson, the ones who called him a bastard best suited to a life running the docks or going criminal, sailing under the black flag and crossbones.

Essentially, a lowlife, not fit for society. Not deserving of respect.

There’s nothing Ramsay hates more than bloody fucking highborn men and the way they never have to fight to earn a damn thing.

A loud bang and shout down the hall makes him groan. The screams, the ones that so usually delight him, don’t impress his aching headache. Anyone who were to pass him by would easily notice that he’d spent the prior night overindulging in alcohol, from the scowl on his lips, the redness in his gaze, and the way he presses his fingers to his temples more often than not.

He shouldn’t have hit the bottle so hard last night, but his mind had been swirling with thoughts of his wife and Theon Greyjoy, thinking of them together, and how Theon should have been groveling at his fucking feet in this very prison, not rutting Ramsay’s wife. Not running his remaining fingers over her in adoration, not when he should have his forehead pressed to the tips of Ramsay’s boots. 

Last night, Ramsay had wanted the thoughts to _stop_. He didn’t like how it made him feel, his inability to push the stupid Greyjoy out of his head. Seeing the Lieutenant at the ball, in good spirits, laughing in good company…as if he’d never crumbled into nothing at Ramsay’s feet.

As if he hadn’t broken under torture. As if Theon Greyjoy hadn’t completely submitted to Ramsay’s will and stared up at him with beautiful eyes while whispering, ‘ _master’._

It felt like all of Ramsay’s hard work had disappeared into thin air and Ramsay didn’t like it. He didn’t like how Theon’s eyes had passed over him, as if Ramsay was no one to him. It made Ramsay feel as if he was _lacking_.

His father always claims Ramsay’s lacking. _Lacking everything_.

******

_Following their carriage ride, he’d gone straight to his home office, ignoring Sansa entirely after her disgusting words. With irritation, he’d thrown himself down at his desk, drinking and drinking more, wanting to wipe away the image of Theon Greyjoy smiling down at her, kissing her fingers with clear adoration._

_Touching her, as if he’d forgotten who he belongs to, as if he’d forgotten that he’ll be Ramsay’s dog until he’s in his grave._

_“What’s this now?” Sansa appeared in the doorway, wearing only her robe, naked underneath. Her pretty lips were pulled into a scowl as she gazed him, her eyes catching on his bottle of whiskey. Usually, Ramsay would seek her out at night to mount her, but after the ball, he'd found himself too raw to fathom touching her with anything other than a knife...so he'd stayed away._

_When he gave her no answer, trying to control his anger, Sansa pushed forward with slight confusion, gesturing at his desk, "Shall we do the deed here, or were you planning on stealing into my bed at your own convenience tonight?” Her robe fell open slightly, giving him a glance of the curve of one pale breast, tipped with a delicate nipple._

_Instead of being aroused as he normally would have been, his mind instantly jumped to thoughts of Theon Greyjoy being aroused by the sight of her. It soured his stomach._

_“Bloody well go away,” he’d slurred at Sansa waspishly, not in the mood to pretend being a polite man. She knows he’s not, as it were._

_Sansa had stared at him, eyebrows climbing sky high. Despite being his wife, her skills at scolding made her more a mother figure than anything…and he’d never really had a mother. Not a real one, anyway. “Are you serious right now, Ramsay? Your father has expectations. My father has expectations on us producing...can't you just be reasonable, for once-"_

_He’d wanted to smash her head against the door, but barely refrained. Blood and guts everywhere in his thoughts. It was hard to remind himself that damaging her wasn’t in his best interest. “Get.”_

_She had rolled her eyes at him before slamming her palm against the doorframe hard, as if clearing away her own fury. “Jealousy is ugly on you. Get your priorities fixed. Directly.” She spun on her heels, marching back to her own solitary bedroom, calling out, “Overgrown child!”_

_“Goddamn witch!” He’d snapped back._

_****** _

This morning he hadn’t been able to sit down to breakfast with her. He didn’t want to see her knowing looks, or her damn pity. Besides, it wasn’t like she truly could understand why seeing Theon Greyjoy irritated him so.

There’s a sharp rap on his door. “What?” He snaps with ill-temper.

“A new shipment from the coast, my Lord. Our solitary cells are full, shall we start double packing them?” Damon looks excited at the prospect; multiple men in cells sometimes led to murderous sport if the personalities clashed.

It was always fun to bet on which inmate would last the night.

Getting up from his seat, Ramsay follows Damon outside to the receiving yard, where a group of men are chained together. Guards stand around them, hands on their pistols.

Ramsay looks over the new meat with an irritated gaze. Wild hair, giant earrings, black kohl around the eyes, flashy colored bandanas. “More pirate slugs, crawled from the depths, it seems?”

Damon nods with a wide grin. “Sailed under the black sails and ivory bones, they did. They were caught, washed up on shore in a wreck. Seems Captain Euron Greyjoy abandoned them after a skirmish gone wrong at sea.”

The name sends a flash of pain through Ramsay’s skull and he curses under his breath, digging his fingers into his eyes. He shouldn’t have bloody drank so much. Especially not over Theon Greyjoy. Another _man_. As if he _feels_ something for him. Every single inkling of anger he fights down simply makes his head nearly split open. For a moment, he wants to vomit, but he swallows it back down.

“Pack the cells,” Ramsay manages to grit out, holding in bile. “Put them all in one. Let’s see how well they like pissing and shitting on each other all night.”

The motley assortment of pirates and low-lives start cursing him out, shouting and howling with anger as they are carted off to be crammed into a cage too small for all ten of them. Ramsay rubs his temples again and finds himself unable to focus on what terrible games he wants to play with them, after their first dreadful night in prison softens them up.

Men will do crazy things, to not be crammed into a cage with nowhere to sit, sleep, or shit.

“I’ve heard that Lieutenant Greyjoy is back ashore these days,” Skinner utters from his other side, a malicious look on his face. “With the dread pirate Euron so close to port…I don’t think it will be any trouble at all to…bring him in again…for further _inquiry_. Can’t be too sure he isn’t feeding naval secrets to his Uncle. _Again_.”

“Bloody traitor.” Damon’s dark blue eyes light up with excitement at the prospect. “I know a runner that can nab him, real quick like, before Lord Eddard Stark even knows what’s happened.”

Silent, Ramsay saunters back to his office, listening to his two top men fantasizing about dragging in their star prisoner once again. They sound like they’re far away, like he’s underwater. He throws himself back down at his desk, feeling the alcohol sweats creeping up on him.

He needs some damn water.

Damon’s voice is far too eager. “…how long do you think it would take for us to break him back down?”

Skinner is laughing, his rough voice grating on the ear. He’d nearly been garroted once, leaving his voice quite the mess. “Not long. It’s always easier to break a bitch once they’ve been broken once. And Theon Greyjoy _broke into pieces_.”

“ _Haha_ , that he did. Do you remember the way he crawled? Always at Ramsay’s heels! Better trained than most dogs. I remember all the scum in their cells would look at that and they’d all be thinking, ‘don’t let that be me next’. Nothing disturbed the fuckers more than seeing him. When Stark had him released, I half expected him to crawl out on all fours! I was sure he’d forgotten how to walk!”

They move on to trying to plan where they would house Theon, considering the full up status of the prison. “We can get a dog cage, one of those small kennels! Ramsay, you can keep him in your office!”

“…ah, Ramsay…?”

Ramsay is quiet, staring at the fingers floating in a jar on his desk.

“…my Lord?”

There is no name written across the jar, the one with the two floating fingers. A ring is still attached to one of them, bearing the sigil of the kraken. There may be no name, but Ramsay will always know who these souvenirs came from.

He almost can’t fault them, his boys. They think it will put him in a better mood, to bring in his dog. The filthy mutt who likes to pretend he’s better than he is.

_****** _

_Ramsay had strung him up on the saltire first. It made it easier to flay when the subject couldn’t move quite so much. He’d given Ramsay a special sort of delight, being the first Lord to grace the halls of his prison._

_The first Lord available for him to torture…Ramsay had near salivated with joy at the chance to ruin a highborn man._

_“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Theon had snarled, spittle flying from his lips, eyes flashing bright. “Eddard Stark is going to hear of this treatment, you lowborn pig-”_

_The first strike had split Theon’s lip in a bloody streak. The second near loosened a tooth and cut his tongue._

_His blood was pretty and his sense of entitlement, ugly. The Greyjoy pride was known to be like steel and Theon Greyjoy was no different._

_“You were aboard the ship of a wanted criminal, the dread pirate Euron Greyjoy. Your whole crew, hacked to little bits. ‘Cept for you, anyway. That doesn’t sound too innocent, does it?”_

_Eyes wild, Theon had spat blood, looking down at Ramsay as if he were less than the shit under his boot heel. “I don’t control Euron. No one does. He took our ship and tortured most of the crew to death. He would have killed me too, but he wanted the trade logs for the mercha-”_

_“Excuses. I mean, look. You’re alive, aren’t you? Must not have been that bad.” Ramsay sneered, drawing a finger down Theon’s naked chest, just to watch his eyes flash with rage. Ramsay got up close, just to make him uncomfortable, to show that Theon no longer had control of his own space. To assert his dominance. “You think you can hide behind the upright Lord Stark’s good name, do you? As if he elevates you, is that it? Well, let me tell you something.” He’d leaned closer, to whisper cruelly in Theon’s ear. “The truth is, you’re nothing more than pirate scum, no matter how you dress yourself. You’re lowly and pathetic. Even the Stark’s couldn’t fix you and your bad name, when they took you in.”_

_Oh, how delicious it had been to see the blossom of fury in those magnetizing eyes. “I’m not a pirate! I’m a Lord of the Iron Islands and you owe me your respect!”_

_Ramsay had given him a blank, empty stare, fingers itching to pick up his knife and truly begin. “You say you’re a Lord of the Iron Islands. Refresh my memory, but aren’t the Iron Islands full of…oh right! Pirates?” He stepped back and grinned widely, laughing, his arms wide. “So, you claim to be a Lord of Pirates? Well! Sounds criminal. I hope your uncle doesn’t hear; he might make a trip out here to flog your usurper hide himself.”_

_“Bastard!” Theon had spat blood into his face, leaving Ramsay to wipe at it, looking at the crimson on his fingers._

_“What did you call me?” Ramsay had pretended to be hard of hearing, cupping a hand around his ear. He kept his voice sweet. It always threw his prisoners for a loop, the fact that he didn’t shout and scream at them._

_The soft voice, the cheery voice and the wide eyes…that ended up scaring them far more. Especially once they knew what he was capable of._

_“Listen closely, swine! I called you a bloody, illegitimate bastard, no better than a slobbering hog-”_

_That’s when he had pulled out his knife. That’s when he began his work in stripping that entitled attitude away for good. Because at the end of it all, Theon Greyjoy may have been raised in a noble home and given noble clothes, but the fact remained that his blood was pirate, through and through._

_…and Ramsay Bolton loved crushing pirates._

_Well, Ramsay loved crushing anyone, really. Pirates and highborn lordlings with big impressions of themselves._

_Oh, how Theon Greyjoy had screamed…and he didn’t bend, not an inch…_

_…and things that don’t bend, break._

_****** _

Ramsay needs more alcohol. He wants his memories of Theon Greyjoy to cease and desist.

Then, he remembers that he needs to answer his men, who are waiting eagerly for his response on recapturing him.

“No.” His voice is flat.

He can almost hear the confusion in the air.

“But, my Lord, we can be careful. He’s certain to be consorting with pirates, despite what anyone says, and you can make him crawl again-”

What part of _no_ did these blazing toadstools not understand? “My wife is quite fond of Lieutenant Greyjoy,” he finds himself saying in a strangely distant, level voice. “She’d be most upset if he ended up in here again.”

Skinner, who has always been more of Roose Bolton’s man than Ramsay’s, is giving him an odd look, playing over the words in his head. Ramsay doesn’t like it when any of them try to scheme for the man that spawned him.

He gets close to Skinner and puts his pistol directly under his chin, hissing, “…and don’t go running your mouth to my father about that. Remember; I know where you sleep. My wife would tell her father in a heartbeat and none of us want him coming here again. Yeah?”

Skinner swallows thickly and nods.

“Now, get out. _All of you_.”

Slamming the door behind them, Ramsay slumps at his desk, feeling drained. He digs around in one of his drawers, looking for something to drink, finding a flask shoved far in the back. Hair of the dog. Opening it with angry hands, he pours it down his gullet, feeling the familiar burn. Unfortunately, when it hits his stomach, it sours and rebels. He’s already raw from all he consumed the night before, in his attempt to not think of his former prisoner, his _pet_ , having his cock sucked by Sansa.

_jealous jealous jealous…he’d never touch you like that, he’d never want you touch him like that…_

It’s not even that he wants the stupid man. _Of course not_. It’s the fact that he wants Theon Greyjoy to worship him, to crawl to his feet and obey him, just like he used to. He wants Theon to hang on his every word, his every breath, the touch of his hand on the top of Theon’s head.

Ramsay wants that submission again. There is no substitute for how it feels to have a highborn man beg for forgiveness, to ask permission to drink water from a bowl on the ground, to inquire when and where he can piss. All of his agency, given to Ramsay.

Belonging to Ramsay, as _his_.

_Jealous, you’re jealous of how he looks at her, you stupid fucking whoreson, you want to be his fucking world again, the lord he fears and needs…you want to give him pain and take the pain away…you want him to suffer for you…to want to suffer for you…the way no one ever has…_

Leaning over, he heaves his stomach out.

He’s tormented by it. The idea of Sansa and Theon together. Tormented by his own sick desires. It drives him mad that Sansa’s right; she’s always bloody right. He never could have imagined that someone could ever understand him so well, the way she does. As if she sees straight through him.

What’s worse; she doesn’t care about all the broken bits inside of Ramsay. Oh, certainly she’s afraid of him, but she also _isn’t_. When he married her, he’d expected her to be like all the others. Not that he’d had much experience with highborn ladies, but all women were afraid of him, regardless of their status. They were equally terrified of his cruel gaze and his sadistic enjoyments.

Sansa Stark wilted until she didn’t.

_“She’s well above you, boy. You’d do well to remember that,” Roose had said in his cold, passionless tone. Hints of mocking. “In fact, you need her and her name more than she needs you and yours. You’d do well to make sure that she isn’t…completely unhappy.”_

He doesn’t love her. He doesn’t love anyone. He doesn’t know how to feel for anyone. Emotions…they get in the way.

But Sansa belongs to him and they have lived their lives mostly separate, in relative peace for two years. It’s completely odious that she’s been able to dissect him, with her keen gaze. It’s absurd that she believes she can peg his moment of weakness as some…ill-thought romance.

He doesn’t want the stupid, arrogant, pirate-in-denial. Ramsay isn’t a bloody fairy. And yet.

And yet, his heart beat a little faster, seeing that smile across the room. Remembering that defiance, remembering how it broke. Remembering how all that fiery Greyjoy pride finally shattered and wept at his feet. Submissive. Obedient.

A man, a dog. Ramsay’s.

Collared and leashed, to follow him around the prison in shame. To be endlessly humiliated and broken down. His eyes, only for his master. His thoughts, only focused on keeping him happy, on avoiding more pain.

That sort of power…well…it’s hard to find.

It’s loathsome that Sansa took one look at Ramsay and _knew_.

Knew that he wanted _something._  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
As the day begins to grow old, Ramsay pulls out the old chest in his office and retrieves the old, nondescript greatcoat, complete with its cape. All black, trimmed with a deep burgundy. The hood is deep and dark, perfect for obscuring one’s identity.

Perfect for a hunt in the city.

He may not be sending his men to spy on Theon Greyjoy…but that doesn’t mean he _can’t_. Just a peek. Nothing more. He won’t confront him…nothing of the sort. Ramsay is in control here. In control of his emotions.

He can handle seeing him. He’ll prove it to himself. The other night was a fluke.

Besides, the last thing he needs is for Skinner to catch Sansa with Theon and tell his father. That would be…unfortunate. The last thing he needs is for Roose Bolton to question the legitimacy of any of Sansa's future pregnancies. 

Ramsay pulls on the getup, making sure to cover up all sign of his Bolton name. It feels strange, to become a nameless man again, a no-one. _No, I’m not no-one. I’m a predator in disguise._

Stalking through the halls, he looks for just the right man to give him starting information.

“Skinner,” he calls amiably, gesturing for him to come closer. “You mentioned the Greyjoy boy in town again. Do you happen to know where he’s staying?”

The older man takes in Ramsay’s attire and an interested grin pulls at his lips. “I’d last heard he shacked up at the Naval housing. That, or he’s with the Stark’s.”

Ramsay grins like a shark and thanks him before heading off.

He’s good at tracking, at hunting. He knows how to be nondescript. How to get the right information without causing suspicion.

It doesn’t take long to swing by the naval housing, casually asking if Theon Greyjoy is about.

“Nah, he’s been out,” one of the lower ranking men says, common slang thick on his tongue.

“Do you know where?” Ramsay asks slyly, already suspecting.

“Uhh…some lord’s house. Up tha’ hill. Tha’ Stave’s?”

“The Stark’s,” Ramsay corrects with an even tone. “Wonderful. You’ve been of great use.” _For an imbecile._

His chest feels tight as he slinks away, making his way through the crowded belly of the city. The stench of unwashed bodies and filth under his feet is familiar. Besides, he’s used to worse in his prison. The stench of rotting flesh is far worse, mixed with feces, vomit, and piss.

Ramsay finds himself dwelling on all the ways he’d like to drag Theon Greyjoy back into his cell. Thinking on how he’d first start in on him again. Maybe he’d even give him a chance to simply _submit_ without the torture…but where’s the fun in that?

He wonders, briefly, what Theon’s lips taste like, because surely his wife is enjoying them right this very moment. She’s probably meeting him at her father’s home, the surest place for her to see her illicit lover. _Who fucking cares what his lips taste like? Bloody hells, man._

It doesn’t take overly long for him to get to the outskirts of the Stark property, to hover in the tree line. The forest is thick and dark, easy to blend into. It’s no trial for him to watch the front of the estate, where carriages come and go.

A skilled hunter can wait, with great patience. A bloodhound can track with a certain bloodthirsty joy.

When the sun begins to set, a familiar carriage shows up. His own carriage. Ramsay smirks darkly; his wife is leaving. She walks elegantly out the front door, escorted by Theon. She grins up at him and curtsies, allowing him to kiss her hand. They don’t kiss or embrace, nothing indecent in the public view.

She climbs into the Bolton carriage and heads home, sly as a fox. Ramsay almost admires her balls. Why has he never noticed what she gets up to?

_Because you’ve never cared. And you only care now, because he’s involved._

The ‘he’ in question is waving away the offer for the Stark’s to send Theon home in one of their own carriages. His voice, pleasant and jovial, rings out over the open lawn, meeting Ramsay’s ears in the trees. “I can walk just fine. The night is young. Thank you for the generous offer, but my legs need a good stretch.”

The doorman nods sagely, voice old and rusty. “Be careful! You never know what sort of devilment is out there, in the dark.”

Theon makes a gentlemanly bow and still declines with an easy sort of grace. Grinning, a sharp smile that makes Ramsay’s mouth tighten as he watches. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank your generous host for me again.”

…then, Theon Greyjoy walks off across the lawn, whistling some sorrowful tune, heading towards town for the night.

Ramsay smirks and jumps down from his perch. His feet are silent as he hunts after his prey. Theon is of the sea and Ramsay is of the forest and the night. The shadows.

_Why did you **really** decline the carriage? What act of ill-repute are you up to, Lieutenant Greyjoy? _

It only takes roughly thirty minutes to approach the outskirts of town.

He follows Theon at a careful distance, pausing in doorways and alleys whenever the Lieutenant makes a stop or turns slightly. Theon doesn’t know he’s being followed and besides; Ramsay is well disguised. The darkness of his attire provides him excellent cover.

That, and Ramsay is good at stalking prey. It’s a hobby of his, actually.

When Theon walks into the local apothecary, Ramsay slinks up by one of the windows and makes sure his hood is down low. He strains to hear the on-goings inside and though it’s muffled, he can glean the main points of what his dog is buying.

An herbal mixture with pennyroyal, meant to be added to a tea. Ramsay snorts, hearing the careful and quiet way Theon asks for it. _At least the mutt has the decency to make sure he doesn’t get my wife pregnant._

The next item he buys is more interesting and not named.

“…and the same order as last time, too,” Theon is saying.

“Were you able to sleep without the nightmares? How about the aches in your joints? Your knees?”

“It helped. More than anything.”

The apothecary hands Theon another bag and takes his coin, quickly. “Don’t go through it so quickly this time. This is your final warning, Lieutenant. You must be careful.”

“I don’t need a lecture on the dangers of it. Goodnight, sir.”

Ramsay steps away from the windows and sidles into alleyway, becoming one with the shadows as Theon comes outside. The Lieutenant looks around cautiously, as if afraid he may have been seen coming out of the shop.

_Why so guilty, Greyjoy?_

Now, Ramsay is intrigued. He never viewed Theon as innocent of crime. He’s a guilty shit and he deserves punishment. And, well, Ramsay is more than willing to administer that punishment.

Utterly willing.

He follows him into the darker, shadier side of town, his curiosity growing. They pass by the naval housing entirely. Ramsay feels a sneer pull at his lips as they turn down an infamous row, Theon making a beeline to the brightly lit whorehouse at the far end, half-naked girls hanging out of windows and lounging about outside, tits hanging loose and free.

Following at a safe distance, Ramsay notes how Theon doesn’t turn his head to look at any of the girls; he ignores their catcalls and walks straight inside without pausing.

_What are you up to, filthy mutt of mine?_

He slows his pace, pretends to be drunk so he can shamble extra slowly and no one will question it. He counts down to at least a minute, assuming Theon will have spoken with the madame, will have been given a room. She’ll be giving him a key…

 _You promised yourself you wouldn’t actually confront him. What are you doing, you stupid bastard? You were only supposed to stalk him, spy on him. Watch him. Nothing else._ Ramsay thinks to himself as his feet continue moving forward.

 _What’s the fun in just watching,_ the other part of him reasons. _Why shouldn’t I trap him?_

Something sours in his belly as he steps up to the door, slowly walking in. _So, my wife isn’t enough for you, is that it?_ It’s stupid, but his jaw is clenching with dark emotion. He may not love Sansa, but she’s _Ramsay’s a_ nd he isn’t about to let just anyone make a fool of her.

It’s all perfectly timed. As he enters, Theon is taking a key and heading upstairs all by his lonesome, no girls in tow. Seeing this, Ramsay abandons his drunk act and slinks straight up to the madame, the over large woman with a wrinkled bosom. She’s standing at her podium, rifling through her books.

“What room did you provide that gentleman with?” Ramsay asks sweetly. He can pretend to be agreeable, if he puts his mind to it. It sets other people at ease, when they don’t think they’re talking to a predator that’s about to rip their throat out.

The madame doesn’t even look up from her large book, making notes and marks of payment against the rooms and her whores. “Can’t provide ya with that, dearie. Ya know thems the rules.”

Ramsay leans forward, just a little, over her podium, crowding into her space. He can almost smell her musky perfume, detestable and overpowering. His voice drops an octave. “I think you might. For _me_.”

At this, her gnarled hand stops scrawling across her book. The madame stiffens and her eyes rise up slowly, to look at Ramsay, to really look at him. Even though his hood is still up, he sees the way she suddenly looks sickly underneath all of her caked-on makeup.

He’s hunted some of her girls before. The ones that were caught robbing clients, picking their pockets. When the complaints would roll in, he’d come with a few men and make the arrest for thievery, only, the girls wouldn’t go to the prison.

Nope. Never quite got there, now did they?

_ …Screams and hounds, the forest, the laughter of men, bloody remains… _

She swallows, blubbery throat working. “He’s in room nine. I didn’t recognize ya, Milord. Apologies.”

Dropping a coin onto her book, Ramsay gives her a wicked grin as he makes his way to the stairs. It’s not hard to find room nine, though it’s more a pain to evade the grasping hands of the girls looking to make a quick piece of copper. He’s pawed at, as he climbs up the dimly lit stairs, hearing his footsteps creaking with every step.

These whores wouldn’t touch him if they knew who he was, under his hood.

Shaking a few of them off, he saunters down the long hall, making a point to glance inside a few of the rooms where the doors have been left wide open. His grin is sharp, the only part of his face visible under the shadow of his hood. It’s always fabulous blackmail material to see someone affluent in here, being spanked or flogged by some hideous fright of a whore.

For every beauty, there’s a handful of unsightly creatures lounging about, with oozing bumps on their lips and cunts.

The licentious symphony of groans and orgasmic screams filter through the thin walls. The slapping of flesh and headboards ring clearly. The scent of overly floral perfume can’t hide the scent of poorly washed bodies and sweaty sex.

Upon coming to door nine, Ramsay halts and listens, hearing no such typical noises. He pulls out his lockpick and sets to work quickly and subtly, pretending he’s just leaning against the doorframe, shielding his work with his body from prying eyes by the stairway.

 _If he’s put his cock in one of these diseased bitches and then in my wife, we are going to be having more than a few words,_ Ramsay thinks dryly, tongue in his cheek as he delicately twists his tools.

Practically panting with eagerness, fingers shaking, Ramsay tries to pull himself together. He shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be confronting Greyjoy, but now that he’s got him cornered, he can’t pull himself away.

He feels the lock give and barely collects himself before twisting the handle, opening the door, stepping just inside.

An irritated growl greets him sharply, “Bloke, that door was bloody locked-”

Ramsay throws his hood back, revealing his face. Using his most cheerful tone, Ramsay announces with false apology, “Oh, I’m sorry. Was it?” He makes a show of pocketing his lockpick tools. “I didn’t notice.”

Theon Greyjoy’s mouth drops open with clear recognition and all the blood in his face disappears in a wave, leaving him ghostly.

Ramsay’s eyes quickly take in the empty room, empty save for his prey and _the pipe_ in his mangled fingers, absent his gloves. Ramsay grins viciously and takes one more step inside, shutting the door behind him with a click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Comments and kudos are loved!!! 
> 
> You guys are all fabulous. *kisses*
> 
> Ramsay is a bit of a creepy, sulky, obsessive dude in this...if you can't already tell XD I love not letting him get what he wants.
> 
>  **Notes on Regency era**  
>  The Regency era is largely considered the time between 1811 - 1820, however, the period of 1795 - 1837 is also sometimes characterized as an extended part of the Regency era. It's interesting, as the Georgian period is 1714-1830/37, so the Regency era falls within. I suppose this story can almost be characterized as 'Georgian'. 
> 
> *On Pirates: Though piracy was beginning to slow during the Regency era, pirates still roamed the various seas, so I think I can manage to squeeze Euron Greyjoy, pirate king, into this story easily enough. One example of this, close to the period, was a female pirate captain name Ching Shih, who commanded a huge league of pirates (in the thousands). Piracy was a rampant issue during the earlier centuries, but around 1820 and after, began to slowly fade away. 
> 
> *On bastard children: Bastard children were not uncommon, but there was this idea of being acknowledged or unacknowledged. An unacknowledged bastard wouldn't inherit anything from an affluent parent, but an acknowledged bastard could. However, acknowledgement did not mean legitimized, so most often the inheritance would be meager for an acknowledged bastard child. Legitimization usually couldn't happen unless your parents got married or there was some royal finagling (hi, Tommen) to write it into being that your chosen heir be your legitimate child.  
> -In Ramsay's case in this story, he spent quite a long period of time with his mother before he was even acknowledged as a son of Roose Bolton. It's very likely that his mother bore the brunt of the poor stigma of giving birth to a child out of wedlock, and a child of rape, no less (not that it mattered to most, society would have called her a tramp or a whore for 'letting' a highborn man use her in such a manner). Unfortunately for him, he was also likely looked down upon due to his circumstance (and we all know Ramsay Bolton doesn't like being looked down on or told he's unworthy). 
> 
> *Homophobia: As mentioned in the tags, homophobia was quite period typical. Homosexual acts were criminalized and sometimes held the punishment of death. The pillory was a common punishment, though certainly not as terrible as a death sentence. Homosexuals still had places to meet, (called Molly houses, the men being called Mollies). It is said that it was somewhat easy to find where these establishments were, due to pillories being installed nearby so the lawmen could drag offenders directly to them for punishment. It would be a great shame to be associated with the act whatsoever and most men (and women) needed to keep it a secret.  
> -To this note, Ramsay being very weirded out by his own odd thoughts about Theon would be quite normal, considering he would already have preconceived notions on homosexuality, based on society. Above all, he loves Power and Control. His sadistic tendencies also augment his personality (and his childhood abuse in this doesn't help with his difficulty processing healthy emotions). For him, he's mostly intrigued by the aspect of how entirely he bent Theon to his will and he doesn't view himself as being sexually attracted to him. It's more about power and the matter of 'making less' a man of 'status', considering Ramsay always struggled with being viewed as common, always striving to be Roose Bolton's legitimate son (as seen in show!Ramsay).


	3. The Sound of Waves

_The pirate captain of the Silence is the sort of man who instills terror in others. The sight of his ship in the distance makes even the sturdiest of men pray to a higher power. Everyone has heard the tales of his malice and madness, his twisted dabbling in the dark arts._

_…and now he’s here. On Theon’s very ship. His Uncle Euron, the terror of the seas. The infamous Crow’s Eye._

_“Who can decode the ship log for the Widower’s Refuge? I know one of you…fine…upstanding gentlemen can unravel it for good old Euron. Tell me, who will do this?”_

_The deck goes silent, aside from the creaking of the two ships as they hover in the ocean, far from the coast. The impressive pirate ship remains connected to the gunship that Theon’s men have been aboard and Theon knows Euron won’t leave until he gets what he wants._

_The rat bastard has done his homework it seems and he knows what information they have on board._

_Theon can only hope their birds reached shore fast enough, after they first sent word to the garrison for reinforcements, weeks back when they first saw the black stain on the horizon following them. Hunting them down._

_Theon had known who it was._

_“No one? Can not a single man here read?” Euron chuckles, observing all those assembled on their knees before him. His crew cackles like a band of ravenous hyenas, brandishing their cutlasses with menace. The sound is…grotesque, as most of the men have had their tongues cut out. “A shame. How can I motivate someone to remember how reading a coded ship log works?”_

_Hanging his head, trying to stay small and unnoticed, Theon shivers. Captain Euron Greyjoy is known for his cruelties and being recognized by him is the last thing Theon wants. His uncle is unpredictable._

_Euron grins widely, arms outstretched. He pauses his predatory pacing to deliver his thoughts._

_“Oh! I have an idea. I’ll have one of my men count off for me, every three men, and on the third man, well, you best not hope you’re the third man. Ready? Maron, begin.”_

_Maron? Theon almost looks up from where he’s kneeling on the ground, hunched up like all the rest of his crew._

_The sound of Theon’s brother approaching makes him ill. He wants to look. He wants to see him, but he can’t look up, least he be recognized. Maron walks behind the first row of men and start patting each on the head, counting, “One. Two. Three.”_

_On the third count, there’s a bang and Euron blows off the head of the third man. Someone moans in terror, now realizing the game. Maron’s counting continues without pause, his sardonic tone familiar to Theon’s ears. “One. Two. Three.”_

_Theon cringes as another man is executed brutally._

_His brother’s footsteps are coming closer as he makes his way down the line. “One. Two. Three.”_

_The bang is ever closer and brain matter splatters. Euron laughs cruelly. “Still, no one can find their tongue? I can do this all day, you know.”_

_Where are our reinforcements? Theon’s mind is closing up, his body shaking with fear. He can taste salt on his tongue, the sea air filling his mouth as he pants nervously._

_“One. Two. Three.” A warm hand lands on his head, jerking his head back so Euron can shoot his face. Theon closes his eyes._

_The man next to him is shot, splattering him with blood. Theon blinks in confusion; he doesn’t understand. He was number three._

_It seems his brother is confused as well. Maron stiffens behind Theon and looks down, jerking Theon’s head further back to see why Euron didn’t kill him. Deep sea-green eyes, lined in kohl, widen. “Bloody hell! Were you not going to say anything, you stupid little git? You were fixing to make Uncle Euron a kinslayer, were you? Typical, Theon. Spoiled cunt.”_

_Theon sees stars in his vision when his brother cuffs him roughly about the head. It reminds him of days on sandy beaches, being chased by both of his brothers, waving his little wooden practice sword about wildly._

_Euron walks forward, his boots heavy on the wooden deck. “Ack, leave the little lost prick alone. I’m suddenly feeling sentimental for the slippery fellow. Little Theon! Look at you. Ready to join the crew?”_

_Is he serious?_

_“No,” Theon splutters._

_Maron cuffs him again. “No ‘what’ you disrespectful shit? Didn’t those upstanding Stark’s teach you any manners?”_

_Hanging his head, gritting his teeth, Theon bites out, “No, Captain Euron. I’m not joining your freakish crew.”_

_All goes quiet again as Euron stares at him with one pale eye, his lips darkened by the poison he’s rumored to drink. “I’m hurt, little Theon. Very hurt. Alas, this meeting can’t possibly be chance, because it just so happens, I’m looking for a man that can read and decode a ship log. I know you can read, dear boy. I need to know where the Widower’s Refuge will port in the next week…and rumor has it your logs include this minor historical detail.”_

_Dread sinks like lead to the pit of Theon’s stomach. Their own ship, being manned by the navy, has a few different known logs and trade routes of ships they often protect across the seas. Euron would naturally be searching for the whereabouts of the famed Widower’s Refuge, an opulent merchant ship known for trading in expensive exotics._

_One of Euron’s mute crewmen brings the giant log book forth as Maron yanks Theon closer to his Uncle. “Tell me where the Refuge will be anchoring. The log should know where they typically are this time of year, dear boy. And, don’t lie. You know what I do with liars…and I might make use of your tongue before taking it.” He grabs Theon’s chin roughly, turning his face this way and that. “You have a striking resemblance to your brother. I imagine your mouth is much like his, too.”_

_Maron flinches._

_Horror spreads over Theon as he stares up into that wicked, blue eye. Euron cackles, seeing the expression on his face. “I believe in corporal punishment boy…something you’ve clearly never learned with those soft, cushy Stark’s.”_

_“I won’t tell you anything,” Theon says stiffly, false stubbornness in his tone._

_“You will, because I’ll torture you last.” Euron’s face seems maniacal. “One way or another, someone must talk. Don’t be a hero, boy. Greyjoy’s aren’t bred to be heroes. It’s not in you.”_

_Euron gestures to one of his men. The pirate steps forward, large and burly, covered in filth. In his hand swings a cat-o-nine-tails, fondly known at the cat. Little stones are threaded into it, to make sure the pain is excruciating. Each blow meant to flay skin from bone. Theon’s mouth goes dry at the sight of it._

_“What say you, nephew? Will you face the cat? My man will not stop until you finish reading the log. You might die before you finish.”_

_Maron is hissing in his ear, “Have you seen a man flogged with something like that before? Don’t be a hero.”_

_Theon hates that his Uncle is right. There is no winning at sea, not when your crew is already kneeling on the ship. No one is coming to save them…only Theon can spare the remaining living men pain._

_“You can’t kill my crew,” Theon says, resigned. “If I give you what you want, you must go.” Even if he’s a traitor for decoding the log, perhaps he can save the men he’s been at sea with._

_Maron is snorting somewhere behind him, hand at Theon’s elbow. He vaguely wonders where Rodrik is. Perhaps on one of the other pirate ships in Euron’s criminal organization._

_Euron strokes his dark beard and grins widely. “Of course. Of course. Now, read.”_

_When Theon’s finished relaying the typical coordinates of the Widower’s Refuge, Euron grins wickedly. “We have the wind. If we make ready now at full sail, we can meet them in a fortnight.”_

_Theon feels numb, even as Maron says cruelly in his ear, “Well done, little brother. Are you sure you don’t want to join?” His breath smells of rum._

_Irritated, full of self-hate, Theon struggles in his brother’s grasp. “Let me go, Maron. I’ll never join you and your scum.”_

_A dark rasp. “That’s really too bad. Do you think you have a choice?”_

_It’s as if a knife has been drawn down Theon’s spine, hearing those words. This can’t be-_

_Euron’s men begin to crowd around the remainder of Theon’s crew. Without warning, a pirate uses his knife to yank open the belly of one of the officers, spilling guts onto the deck. Like ropey worms, they spill outward. The man screams in terror and agony and is promptly thrown overboard in a splash of red._

_The sound of water thrashing, full of screams, comes shortly after. A ripping and tearing…_

_“Feed the sharks!” Euron roars out with glee. “Feed all of the sharks.”_

_With a shout, Theon tries to run forward, to do **something** , but Maron holds him steady in a bruising body grasp. “You promised you wouldn’t kill them! Uncle Euron, I did as you asked! You promised!”_

_The crew is looking at Theon in betrayal and his insides are wilting like flowers in a hurricane._

_Throwing his head back to laugh loudly, Euron grins, saying reasonably, “But, I’m not killing them. The sharks are.” He then nods to Maron wordlessly, an order that Theon cannot understand._

_He’s dragged away, onto the Silence, listening to the sounds of his crewmates being gutted and thrown overboard, food for the ravenous sharks circling in the depths. The blood brings the creatures forth, the scent of it in the water like a lovely perfume._

_The ocean begins to turn red as bodies begin to pile in the sea, thrashing and screaming, blood and gore flying as the terror fish madly feast on their flesh and limbs. Ripping them to shreds. Theon vomits on the deck of the Silence, moaning in horror._

_Other horrors happen on the deck of Theon’s former ship. Horrors too vile to name. The screams are nearly inhuman._

_“Why didn’t you just kill me?” The shame is too great. He’s an absolute failure, unworthy of living._

_Soon, flames engulf the dead ship and the Silence sails away in triumph. “What sort of stupid question is that?” Maron replies, shoving Theon down to the lower deck._

_The ship smells of alcohol, incense, and coppery blood._

_Another man helps Maron tie Theon up against one of the poles. When they’re done, Theon scowls at his brother and snaps, “You won’t get away with this. Reinforcements will come. They’ll hang you all and set me free-”_

_Slapping him casually, Maron rolls his eyes. “No one is coming for you. You’re where you belong now. With your family. Where you should have been all along, had Mum not sold you off to the Stark’s for…what was it…a better life?” He cocks his hip and gives Theon a sarcastic glance. “How’s that working out for ya?”_

_Snarling, imbued by rage and shame, horror that his entire crew has been slaughtered, Theon says, “I’m nothing like you. Any of you. I’m better-”_

_This time, he gets a blow to his belly, forcing all the air out of his lungs. “You’ve always been a bit of a cunt.” With eyes half mast, Maron drawls, “You’ll learn.” His hand cups Theon’s jaw in a surprising show of gentleness._

_“What’s going on down here?” A female voice, one that makes Theon’s heart leap. Maron jerks his hand away, glowering._

_“Yara,” Theon wheezes out weakly, still trying to get air into his lungs again._

_His sister halts by the stairs, eyes wide, darting between Maron and Theon in equal measure. Upon her head is a large tricorn hat, complete with a giant feather. A hoop earring glitters in each ear. “What the bloody sea is this?” She utters. “Why is Theon here?”_

_Maron grins nastily, his own earrings swinging with his movements. He and Theon have always been similar in stature and feature, though Maron has always had a meaner glint in his eye. “Got himself caught, he did. Time to join the family.”_

_When Maron finally leaves Theon alone with Yara, his sister cups his face with a sterile sort of sadness in her dark eyes. “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers.  
  
  
_

* * *

_  
  
_

* * *

  
These days, Theon’s dreams are haunted more often than not.

He finds himself waking violently in the night, covered in sweat. Shaking, heart tight and painful. Sansa has commented more often than not that he seems tired when they can steal away to meet…but he doesn’t feel like he can tell her his greatest shame.

That he can’t find peace at night, not without…help.

He’s reduced to this shambling mess of a human being. Hanging on by a thread to his humanity and his reputation. Lord Stark, more of a father than Theon’s own, had given him every opportunity to move forward and leave the horrors of sea behind.

Only, he _can’t_. His damn name is a cruel jape; Greyjoy. As a boy, he’d been so proud of his name, only to be surprised to learn that no one on land actually held the Greyjoy name in any sort of esteem. All because his family was known for raiding the seas, living on the great blue. One with the tide, always ending up in Davy Jones’ Locker.

 _One day you’ll end up there too,_ they’d always say.

Theon tried to be what Ned Stark wanted him to be. He failed more often than not, his hubris often taking the wheel. He’d been a foolish young man, still holding onto the idea that maybe his own father would one day want him back, would be proud of him…but that day never came.

He was never asked to rejoin Balon on the Iron Islands. Never asked to rejoin his family.

He never quite understood why until one day, Ned took him aside and sat him down, seriously staring off at the ocean.

_“You are the last Greyjoy that still has a chance to reclaim your name from the blight of piracy. You are not meant for that life, Theon. You know I have always supported you and taught you what it means to be a lord in the North. You will join society as a Lord, but you will not do it on the Iron Islands. If you go back, you will end up swinging in the gallows; it will only be a matter of time. Pirates do not lead easy lives.”_

It had stung, to hear Ned’s words…and Theon had spent much of his teenage years being angry over it. So, instead of joining society as Ned intended, Theon joined the navy, the ocean’s call still strong in his veins. If he couldn’t be a Greyjoy in the traditional sense, he would regain his family’s name in his own way.

…and look where that stupidity got him.

Hunted by his own flesh and blood. Riddled with horrid nightmares and aches deep in his joints. His soul, full of guilt and shame. After he escaped Euron and the vast destruction his Uncle had caused while Theon was his ‘guest’, the North didn’t welcome him back with open arms.

He was sent to the Bolton prison under suspicion of treason and fraternization with wanted criminals.

Another horror show to add to his list, one written in his flesh, leaving him mangled. Scarred. A changed man.

If he concentrates hard enough, he can almost remember what it feels like to wear a thick dog collar around his own neck. Theon shudders, ripping his fingers away from his throat. Another cruel fate Ned Stark rescued him from.

 _He continually gives and gives, and yet I am worthless,_ Theon thinks, distraught.

With disappointment in himself, he prepares his pipe, as he does on the nights he’s on land, able to hide away somewhere where no one can find him. Not even Euron. Certainly not Sansa.

He’s aching for it all to fade away into the comfortable numb, where he can float away from himself. A place where reality becomes fuzzy and his dreams become empty. Empty of the dying screams of men, empty of his own humiliations, his shameful submissions.

“Here’s to another painless night…” Theon whispers to himself, preparing to use his drug of choice.

Only, he’s rudely interrupted. His locked door opens and a cloaked man steps inside, completely without ceremony.

Theon has no words for the sharp, thorny emotion that slices through him at the sight of the ominous figure stepping through the doorway. At first, he fears that his Uncle has sent another of his messengers, trying to fill his ears with all sorts of terrible reasons why he needs to shed his false skin of upholding the law, but then the hood falls back, revealing that this isn’t another of Euron’s men.

 _Oh, no_. It’s far _worse_. 

“Lord Bolton,” Theon says in a choked voice, staring with wide, terrified eyes.

 _This can’t be happening. How did he even_ find _me here?_

Every hair on his body stands up and his shoulders sink as he curls in on himself. Muscle memory dies hard, it seems. He’s deeply ashamed of that fact. Theon bows to no man, never felt less next to anyone. Not until he met Lord Ramsay Bolton.

Well, not when he met him, per se. More like _after_ meeting him.

The dark-haired Lord grins at him, managing to pull off a charming sort of danger. He’s not an imposing man, not at first glance. Not as one would expect for a man with such an infamous reputation. Ramsay Bolton isn’t overly tall, nor is he wide. He’s average in size, with an athletic frame. Bright eyes that sting like ice picks and a smile akin to a knife wound. Sharp canine teeth and deep midnight hair. There’s nothing about him that screams immediate violence, aside from the ominous look that always seems to hover in his gaze.

The expression of glee that crosses his face whenever another person meets an ill-fate.

Though his hood has been thrown back, he still oozes threat. Danger hovers about him like a plague. Like a second skin. His eyes glitter brightly, icy. These eyes haunt his dreams. His bloody _laugh_ follows Theon in the dark.

The way he never yells. He simply _tells_ , just once. Only ever once…and if not obeyed, pain will follow. This has been trained into Theon with artful precision.

…and Bolton had a substantial amount of time to train him.

“I never grow bored, hearing you call me that,” Ramsay says brightly, eyes flickering around the room. Taking in everything, missing nothing. The sounds of groans and moans still filter through the walls. “I like it better when you call me _something else_. Do you remember?”

_Master._

Theon swallows thickly, feeling his eyes burn with shame. His jaw clenches, a vein throbbing in his temple. “You know I remember.”

_I should have known it would be trouble to go to that ball the other night. I wanted to see Sansa, but foolishly tried to forget that she’s married to the devil and that he might be at her side._

_He’s going to cut me to pieces. He’s going to kill me, slowly. He must know about Sansa. He’s finally come to end me. I hope she’s alright…_

Absurdly, Theon considers throwing himself out the window. His eyes glance over at the closed curtains. Seeing this, Ramsay tsk’s at him, saying softly, “Oh, no. I don’t think so. We aren’t up high enough for you to go splat, naughty pup.”

Theon stares at him, eyes widening.

Ramsay smirks, arms crossed over his chest as he leans back against the closed door. “Ask me how I know.”

On reflex, Theon answers how he knows he’s expected to. “How do you know it won’t kill me?”

Ramsay’s expression brightens, if at all possible. He idly unsheathes his dagger, his favorite one, playing with it as if bored. Theon knows he’s anything but bored.

The man loves to watch Theon sweat with fear.

“Because, some time ago, I was informed that some mollies were meeting up in one of the rooms here. My boys and I, well, it’s our duty to come and make sure this house of ill-repute doesn’t become…well, _worse_. Sure enough, we found the two men dressed up like lassie’s buggering each other enthusiastically. Quite depraved, as I’m sure you can imagine. The logger’s son was one of them and he leapt right out the window.” Ramsay chuckles, clearly remembering. “He broke multiple bones, a few of them sticking out of his flesh. He looked like a hideous whore, in his little dress and goofy makeup. He was crying for him mum, by the time we got down by him. We still dragged him off to the pillory. Oh, how he wailed.” Ramsay points his knife at Theon and scolds, “So, don’t fling yourself out that window, you stupid peacock, seeing as you won’t die and I’ll have to step on your broken limbs just to prove a point.”

Lord Bolton laughs then and Theon feels his stomach turn in horror. As always, Bolton is terrifying, full of enjoyment over the most terrible of things. _How does Sansa live with him?_

He’s always worried for her, knowing she’s trapped with him.

“Have I done something wrong, Lord Bolton?” In other words, _have I done something to warrant me being taken back to prison with you? Or are you intending to kill me right now and spare me the added torment?_

Theon can’t go back. _He can’t_. He can’t become that ghostly shell of himself, submissive as a peach, a willing dog. Able to do just about anything to survive, to endure all sorts of humiliations at the bastard’s hand.

Leaning arrogantly against the door once more, looking down his nose, Ramsay says, “I don’t know, Greyjoy. I’ve heard rumor that your Uncle has come close to port again. The runners have been rounding up pirates washing up on shore. It would be…careless of me…to not make sure you aren’t giving away private trade routes again. Selling the lives of…innocent men…to save your own…”

Guilt rears its ugly head, vomit nearly clawing up Theon’s throat. He still has the nightmares, the dreams of what Euron’s men did, of the ship deck flowing with blood, intestines, the scent of odd incense and the chanting of dark magic-

He shudders, hating himself. He could beg and plead, tell Lord Bolton once again that he’d had no idea that Euron would slaughter everyone on that merchant ship. That he’d thought Euron would only rob them blind, strip them of their clothes, maybe make them walk the plank. Theon had _begged for their lives_.

The sounds of men being raped to death, of men being flogged to the bone before being thrown to the sharks…these are things Theon wishes he could unsee.

“I’m not on speaking terms with my Uncle,” he whispers, feeling numb. “I didn’t…know…I couldn’t stop him…”

Theon’s hands begin to shake violently.

Has death finally come for him, in this rank house of ill-repute?

Ramsay sneers at him, handsome and awful in a terrible mix. He pushes away from the door, slowly strolling around the bed. “The thing is…I believe you when you say you didn’t know what he’d do. You know what I _don’t_ believe?”

“…I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

He paces closer, close enough that Theon can smell the forest hovering about him. A hunter, through and through. “See, I don’t believe you would have done anything different, even if you _had known_. You’re a coward and you would have sold those poor, defenseless souls, just to save your own stinking hide.”

Bolton’s every footstep sounds like thunder in Theon’s ears. He shrinks back against the headboard, eyes wide and heart fluttering madly in his jugular. Bolton laughs, even as he presses forward, one knee coming up onto the bed, as if ready to pounce on Theon at any moment. “Look at you. I haven’t even laid a hand on you and you’re already sniveling.”

“Don’t. D-don’t touch me.”

“D-don’t t-touch me,” Ramsay mocks in a cruel falsetto voice. Then, his tone hardens as he lunges forward, hand at Theon’s neck. “I’ll touch you as I please. Or have you forgotten?”

No, Theon hasn’t forgotten. He hasn’t forgotten what it feels like to dread a touch so terribly and to crave it in equal measure. The pain…the pain was a mindless sort of agony. But a kind touch…well, that was _so much more_ , when one had become accustomed to only pain.

How eager one could become for _any_ human company, when left in the dark alone for too long.

Theon certainly can’t forget the way he shamed himself, multiple times, the way he would crouch idle between Ramsay’s legs as his prized dog, just to feel the warmth of his body, the heat of his thigh. It was so cold in the prison and Theon’s clothes had been ragged.

He had ached for warmth. For kindness.

Ramsay would sit at his desk and write his missives, all with Theon huddled at his feet, entirely obedient, afraid of making a wrong move or sound.

Lord Ramsay Bolton had become his world in that dreadful prison. Theon still feels the emptiness in his chest, the hole in his heart that Sansa can’t possibly fill. The gaping wound left by _his master_. 

Those haunting, pale eyes are searching across Theon’s face with a certain intensity that Theon can’t quite understand. _Why is he looking at me like that?_ With two hands, he tries to force Ramsay away from him.

He’s too close and Theon is suffocating in his presence. “Stop touching me.”

Scoffing at how Theon tries to shove him away, Ramsay says, “You’ve turned out to be quite the disloyal dog. I might have to retrain you again, you insolent shit. _Hold still_.”

At the hissed command, Theon feels his limbs go limp, faster than any drug he’s ever inhaled. All without his intention to do so.

Smiling at his obvious reflexive response, Ramsay whispers lowly, “Good boy. That’s the good boy I remember.”

Theon closes his eyes, doesn’t want to acknowledge how those words make him feel. The warmth, coiling in his belly. The flutter in his chest, as if he’s won the crown. All because his master praised him-

“Look at me, Greyjoy.” Soft. Serious in tone.

With great reluctance, Theon’s eyes open to meet Ramsay’s keen gaze. He can nearly taste the other man’s breath, can smell the forest on his clothes. His hand is a familiar weight on Theon’s neck. Holding, not yet strangling.

He’s choked Theon before, just to see how far Theon’s submission would go.

_“Don’t fight me, even when you can’t breathe anymore. Understand? Say yes,” Ramsay had said, both hands around Theon’s neck as he stared down at him, pupils wide and excited._

_The prison floor was hard against Theon’s spine, yet he nodded._

_A hard slap. “Say **yes**.”_

_“Yes, master.”_

_Those pale eyes had watched him the entire time, wide and hungry, mouth open and panting, even as Theon’s vision went black._

It seems that Lord Bolton’s mind has gone to a similar memory. He flexes his grip on Theon, as if curious. “If I tighten my grip on your throat until you can’t breathe, will you stop me?”

Theon shakes his head, feeling disgusted with himself. He wouldn’t try, not really.

_At least I’ll sleep if he does that. Maybe._

Leaning close, Ramsay whispers into Theon’s ear, crowded against the headboard. “It seems you still remember a great deal about how to behave. This pleases me.”

Theon can’t bear to feel the heat from Ramsay’s body, so close to his own. It’s not fair that this man can stroll back into his life, whenever he pleases. As if he owns it.

_He does own you, or don’t you remember?_

For a minute, there is nothing but the sound of their breathing. Ramsay’s nose brushes against the shell of Theon’s ear and they both shudder. Theon’s heart is pounding and he wonders if Ramsay will tear into his throat with his teeth.

Suddenly, Ramsay sits back from Theon, as if burned. “You know what _doesn’t_ please me?”

“Many things, Lord Bolton,” Theon rasps out.

It’s true.

An unpleasant expression twists his face. “Try harder, Greyjoy. I know it’s hard for you to use your brain, but _do try_.”

It’s now that Theon catches sight of Ramsay briefly fiddling with the finger where his wedding ring would be. The motion of twisting a ring back and forth. 

_He’s thinking of Sansa,_ Theon realizes with dismay. _So, it has come down to this, all along._

Now, Theon’s mouth goes dry. _He saw the way I danced with her that night. The way I kissed her hand. I’ve been a fool. He’s going to flay me living._ He starts to shake, a violent tremble starting in his hands, memories flooding him.

He’s drowning.

Theon tries to shape words, to bring some lie forth, some sort of believable story, but he’s empty of everything but horror. A sharp backhand sends a flash of pain through his cheekbone, causing him to see stars. He gasps, mouth working.

“Whatever lie you’re clumsily pulling together, forget it.” Lord Bolton leans forward, his grip on Theon’s throat tightening slightly. His mouth comes close to his ear and Theon can feel his breath on his skin. “You can’t lie to me…and I already know.”

A small part of Theon curls up and sobs, feeling an impending doom creeping up on him. He gasps brokenly, head bowing. Bolton’s nose brushes his cheekbone and Theon feels overwhelmed. He feels trapped, like he’s about to be eaten alive.

“I’m sorry,” Theon finds himself gasping out, because what else can he say? There’s nothing that will make this right. _Nothing._

For another long moment, he fears that Ramsay has hurt Sansa and prays that she’s safe. He hopes Bolton hasn’t taken his anger out on her.

She doesn’t deserve that. Sansa deserves so much more.

“Sorry isn’t an answer. This is a game, Greyjoy. You are required to answer me. You’ve got your hint, so tell me what the current thorn in my side is,” Ramsay says darkly, shaking Theon a bit to get his attention.

It’s hard to find the right words. How does one admit to something so distasteful? “I…I’ve been keeping Sansa…company. It’s obvious why you’re here. Why you’re angry-”

“Wrong.” It’s a sneer, full of a strange, self-depreciation. Ramsay steps away from where Theon is sprawled against the headboard, retreating to stand at the foot of the bed.

His absence leaves Theon feeling cold.

Theon looks up at him, shocked. _What have I done wrong then? Why is he here, tormenting me? Just because he enjoys it? It’s likely, but…no…he’s off tonight._

The knife glitters in Ramsay’s grasp again as he flips it about with a certain irritation. “I don’t like when people play with _my toys_ ,” Ramsay grits out, a flash of something awful in his gaze. “Not without my permission. That’s why I’m here, Greyjoy.”

Blinking, it takes Theon a moment to catch up to the plot. He tilts his head, eyes going wide. He can’t mean…oh, _but he does_.

Theon swallows thickly. “M-my Lord-”

“Shut. Your. Filthy. Mouth. _You_ lost the game.” Ramsay comes to a stop beside the nightstand, idly staring down at Theon’s pipe. “You guessed _wrong_. Now, you get to reap your punishment, dog.”

With a nasty look, Ramsay picks up Theon’s pipe and sniffs. Something like a creeping horror scratches at Theon’s senses; whatever Ramsay is putting together in his head, it cannot be good. He still can’t wrap his mind around the fact that Ramsay isn’t even seemingly mad about Sansa.

He’s mad because-

Ramsay’s nose wrinkles. “Opium,” He says with surprise. His eyes widen comically. “My, my. You have been a naughty boy. Can’t be inhaling this on your navy ship while on duty, now can you? So here you are, smoking your itty bitty pipe, all alone. In a whorehouse. _What would Sansa think_?”

At the sound of her name, Theon jolts, his shoulders getting defensive. “Don’t tell her, she’d…she’d be-”

Those sharp eyes flash wickedly, danger lurking in his midnight pupils. “My wife would be _what_ , dog? Do tell me. Tell me what you know about _my wife_.”

Looking oddly defiant, Theon finishes miserably, “She’d be sad. If she knew. Worried.”

Those fingers wrap around his throat once more, just holding. Theon knows this hold and he forces himself to not panic, because if he panics, Bolton will only get more bloodthirsty. The scent of fear sends him into a frenzy. “Worried?” His voice is playfully mocking. “Why would she be worried about a dog like you? Hm?”

He can’t speak. Theon shudders and he tries to look away from that prying gaze, the gaze that sees far too much.

“Do you believe she loves you? Truly loves all your flaws and scars?” Ramsay asks sarcastically. Fingers slide softly across Theon’s throat, feeling his pulse. “Don’t be stupid. She’s probably repulsed by you.”

The words are like knives, one after the other, sliding under Theon’s fingernails. “I lov-”

His pipe is roughly shoved into his chest.

Ramsay’s face is tight and his mouth is pulled into a vicious snarl. There's a wild look in his pupils. “I advise you not finish that sentence. I _did not_ ask you to tell me how you feel.”

Theon slams his mouth shut.

For a minute, they stand there staring at each other. Ramsay seems to be trying to get a hold of himself, his jaw clenched tight, so tight that his teeth are grinding. He looks torn between hating Theon and hating himself, which Theon doesn’t quite understand.

Then, Ramsay goes blank, all emotions melting away, as if they never existed.

Oh, Theon hates when he does that. As if he’s not human at all.

“Well, don’t let me stop you from lighting that pipe of yours.” Ramsay makes a gesture. His eyes widen with meaning. “Go on now.”

Feeling and looking ill, Theon stares down at the opium pipe in his hand before looking back up at Ramsay. He can’t be serious. “But while I’m out…you could do… _anything_.”

Ramsay’s face splits into a strangely forced, maniacal smile. As if delighted. “Or _nothing_.”

The look in his eye books no room for refusal. Theon must obey, even if it terrifies him.

 _It would be better if I simply slit my own throat,_ Theon thinks, insides torn between being numb and resigned. _At least I won’t feel much. And maybe he’ll just kill me._

He lifts the pipe to his lips. The opium smoke fills his lungs, washing him with calm and warmth, like a gentle embrace where there is no pain. Lord Bolton is watching him with interest, eyes hooded. He’s moved across the room and Theon can’t remember how he got there.

Fuzzy. Faded. Warm.

There are only clouds of comfort. Painless, fearless comfort.

Nothing can hurt him…not even…the man in the room.

He faintly sees Bolton go to the window and jimmy it wide open, making sure the room doesn’t fill with the stench of the opium smoke. Bolton lifts his red neck bandana up over his mouth and nose, likely to avoid inhaling it himself.

Theon can barely remember why the window shouldn’t be open, why he was worried about it being open before. He’s too safe now; Euron can’t find him. The room is getting fuzzy and he feels like he’s sinking downward, under the sea.

_Davy Jones’ Locker, where all Greyjoy’s sleep._

The pipe slips from his fingers and Theon relaxes into the worn, stained sheets of the brothel bed. Blearily, he looks around, trying to focus on Ramsay. His fear has bled away, replaced with emptiness, a numbness.

It matters not that Ramsay could easily cut him to bits right now. Could flay him living and Theon would simply smile and feel not a damn thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Comments and kudos are loved!!! ♥
> 
> **So, we have a bit of book Euron Greyjoy in this fic, seeing as show Euron was sort of a huge letdown. Book Euron was like a dark magic lord, had an eyepatch, captained the Silence (full of mutes with their tongues torn out), and was heavily insinuated to have sexually abused one of his brothers (which is why I threw in some added creepy factor in this fic).
> 
> **We got us Regency and got us some weird Pirates of the Caribbean-ish shit going on. WTF.  
> It was an excuse to use sharks XD that has to be it. I love sharks, I've dived with sharks a few times...I can only imagine what they were like during the ages when people actually got wounded and got their asses thrown off ships. YICK. 
> 
> Anywho, Poor Theon, as always. I've got some family drama for him, past horrors with Euron and the sibs, which leads to him getting thrown in Ramster's prison, seeing as polite society would have probably looked at Theon and been like 'so, everyone on your crew got murdered, your boat blown up, but you still live and Euron is going around boning trade ships? Hmmm....sounds like traitor to me.'


	4. Envious in Shades of Crimson

_“The Runners have brought in something special, my Lord.”_

_“Not now, Damon. I’m busy.” Where to cut? It's always delightful to peel off the tattoos on pirates. He likes asking them ‘lovely art really should be up on the walls, don’t you think?’ He likes to watch how they pale, realizing what he means._

_The big blonde man leans against the door frame. “It’s a Greyjoy.” The meat under Ramsay’s blade freezes; the name carries a hefty weight amongst those in low places. “The Stark’s Greyjoy,” Damon finishes with barely concealed smugness._

_Ramsay pauses, the flat of his blade against the meat’s restrained forearm. There’s a ship wheel inked there, waiting to be removed. Ramsay’s mind has floated elsewhere, thinking on the Greyjoy that Damon has mentioned._

_An uppity sort of bloke, with eyes that seemed to change with his mood, or even the very lighting he stood in. An ever-ready smile, wide and full of perfect teeth. Arrogant, and odiously popular with women. Worse still; the chap was the sort to treat others poorly, as if his status in life made him better than everyone because of his association with the Stark’s. As if he wasn’t just pirate scum underneath all his big grins and infectious laughs._

_“Theon Greyjoy,” Ramsay mutters, eyeballing his own reflection in his blade before stepping away from the tied down prisoner. Turning to Damon, Ramsay sheathes it and says, “You’ve caught my interest. Lead the way.”_

_Damon leads him out of the chamber and explains, “He washed up on shore earlier this morning looking worse for wear. Thing is, his former ship was found burning weeks ago, all of the crew lost to the sea. Dead. Missing. Who knows? All except him…and rumor has it that Euron Greyjoy is the one who slaughtered them all.”_

_“His uncle, yes?” Ramsay’s face is blank, eyes empty wastelands as he tries to hide how excited he is to have the stupid oaf at his fingertips, ripe for being knocked down a few pegs. “I assume there’s suspicion that Theon Greyjoy aided and abetted Captain Euron, considering he yet lives.”_

_“Yes, my Lord. If he helped Euron, he might be up for execution. There's talk of treason.”_

_Ramsay feels his lips twitch, wanting to smirk at that. Oh, he would have fun toying with this obnoxious upstart, a wannabe lord. For all those times his gaze skirted over Ramsay at events because he deemed him to be ‘just’ a bastard son, for all the times he looked down on him as some sort of rabid pet of Roose Bolton…well. Theon Greyjoy will get what he deserves._

_…and Ramsay has never had a lord held in his prison. His fingers tingle with excitement._

_*******  
They’ve placed Theon Greyjoy on the saltire, as he instructed. _

_The sorry bloke is shouting hoarsely, his voice echoing down the halls as Ramsay approaches with mounting anticipation. He’s nearly shaking with bloodlust, excited._

_Theon Greyjoy. In his prison. As his prisoner. What did he do to deserve this blessing? Soon, the chap is going to regret looking down on Ramsay, dismissing him as worthless, the dirt beneath his feet. Soon, he will see what he really is._

_The shouts grow in volume. " **HELLO**? Are all of you deaf **AND** ugly?"_

_-and-_

_"Let me out of here! Don’t you know who I am? I need to speak with Lord Stark! I need to warn them of Captain Euron. **UGH**. You bloody goat fuckers-”_

_Ramsay’s eyes widen as he pauses at the door. Ooo. Very creative, isn’t he?_

_Without preamble, he opens the door and steps inside, putting an effective end to Theon’s temper tantrum. In the dark prison room, lit only by torches, Ramsay can see the saltire and the man strung up on it._

_Those eyes pin him with a certain fire. Good. Greyjoy will need that fire down here._

_“Bolton.” Greyjoy says harshly. Ramsay is almost surprised he deigned to recognize him. “You are well aware that I’m part of the navy. I have vital information-”_

_Wiggling a finger at him, Ramsay smiles, leaning back against the wall idly. “Ah ah ah. I thought I was just a goat fucker?”_

_An indignant frown shapes those lips. Greyjoy has the audacity to roll his eyes, as if Ramsay is an invalid. “I didn’t mean you, now did I? I meant your minions who threw me down here.”_

_“Is that so? I seem to recall you lumping me in with…common men…more often than not. Is that not still your opinion?”_

_Theon Greyjoy shuts his mouth quickly. He doesn’t speak, beginning to realize he’s been placed in the care of a man that doesn’t hold him in good standing. Better yet, the shit-stain knows he’s insulted him on more than one occasion._

_Ramsay relishes the moment of power, drinking in the very slow anxiety building inside of the other man._

_His grey eyes travel up and down Greyjoy’s form, taking in the ratty pantaloon trousers and the hole-stricken shirt that has clearly seen better days. His sun-tanned skin makes his eyes stand out keenly; a wide sea of blue, filled in with a deep, piercing green around his pupils. Ramsay pulls on his most unimpressed expression. “Hmm. You don’t…look like a navy man, do you? You know what you look like?”_

_Greyjoy’s mouth thins at this, eyes narrowing slightly. Suddenly realizing that Ramsay isn’t going to play nice._

_Ramsay feels his own lip curl with disdain. “I think you know. I think you are well aware that you look like pirate scum. Disloyal. Cowardly. Vile. Do you know what we do with pirates here?” He plays with his flaying knife, balancing it._

_Instead of looking cowed, Greyjoy looks incensed. “There’s been a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here. If someone would just tell Lord Stark that I’ve returned, we can get this settled out. I’ve been captive aboard my-” He pauses, flushing, as if realizing how bad his next words are going to sound. “I’ve been a captive aboard my uncle’s ship for weeks.”_

_Adopting a cruel, mocking lisp, Ramsay replies, “Are you hoping for your Stark daddy to save you?” He steps forward and punches Theon in the stomach, watches as he gasps for air, saliva dripping from his mouth. Ramsay switches to his normal tone, face blank. “Nobody is coming to rescue you. But, I’m happy to hear all about your time on Captain Euron’s ship. Entertain me. He’s quite the wanted criminal, you know.”_

_Theon groans, as if frustrated with the situation, still believing he has an out. “What is it you want? Gold? Jewels? What talks to people like you? I don’t belong here and you know it.”_

_The corner of Ramsay’s mouth pulls down. He feels vaguely insulted. “People like me? I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re getting at, Greyjoy. I’m a lord, just like you.”_

_Making a derisive little noise, a mocking laugh, Theon says, “No, not like me. You’re a lowborn shit-sack.”_

_An ugly feeling boils in Ramsay’s belly. This insolent cunt never changes, he thinks hatefully. The stupid bloke doesn’t even realize how deep in he is. For a moment, all Ramsay can see is bloody red everywhere, wanting to rip and tear, stab stab stab stab…_

_Exhaling hard, Ramsay shuts his eyes briefly, trying to regain control again. When he feels vaguely stable -because he’s never truly stable- he opens them again and smiles emptily at his new prisoner. His prisoner who truly thinks he can buy his way free._

_Theon Greyjoy truly doesn’t **know** Ramsay Bolton. Perhaps he should have paid attention to his surroundings a little more instead of assuming Ramsay to be too unimportant and lowly to take notice of. He reaches forward and touches the small, dangling ruby in Theon’s ear. It's something Ramsay hasn't seen on him before. “This is charming.” _

_The air has changed, gotten darker. Ramsay loves when a prisoner realizes that Ramsay isn’t what was imagined. He loves when a prisoner realizes that Ramsay can’t be bought, that he’s here because he **enjoys it**._

_You can’t buy a man who’s already doing what he loves. Well, not without a fortune, anyway._

_Theon is staring at the wall, suddenly unable to meet Ramsay’s chilly gaze. “My brother did it. I didn’t ask for it-”_

_Ramsay yanks swiftly and Theon yells in pain as the earring comes free. Grinning, Ramsay says, “Splendid. I think I’ll keep it.”_

_“You sick bastard!” Theon snarls, blood dripping from his ear, eyes blazing._

_Backhanding him swiftly with a satisfying crack of flesh meeting flesh, Ramsay sneers, “You’ll learn not to call me that again.”_

_Spitting blood, Theon trembles against the saltire, eyes suddenly seeing Ramsay, **really** seeing him. “You can’t treat me like this-”_

_Grabbing him by the chin, Ramsay snarls, leaning in close, “I’ll tell you a little secret. Are you listening?”_

_Theon is trembling. He remains silent._

_“I require answers to all my questions, Greyjoy.”_

_“Y-yes. I’m listening.”_

_Ramsay is so close that he can smell the sand and salt on Theon’s skin. He can feel the heat of his body, radiating. Into his ear he says, “I can do anything I want to you down here. No one is coming to save you, pretty boy. It’s just me and you.” He steps away to grin brightly with murderous glee. “We’re going to have so much fun! I’ve always wanted to find out what lords are made of on the inside.”_

_Theon pales under his tan and starts heaving as he digests Ramsay’s words. Without warning, he cranes his head forward and vomits onto the floor with a splat. Ramsay pauses and looks down at the mess that has splattered onto his boots. “Hm. Not off to a great start, are we?”_

_His prisoner moans in dread.  
  
_

* * *

* * *

  
  
It doesn’t take long for the opium to slow his dog down. Ramsay watches from his perch on the windowsill, the night breeze ruffling his hair. It’s like a chill hand on his scalp, cool and sudden. Any smoke in the air filters away in the wind. The pipe lies on the bed, Theon’s remaining fingers going limp around it.

With measured steps, he finds himself approaching the bed again, seeing the bleary way that the Greyjoy tries to focus on him. Ramsay feels himself smirk; even if his dog feels any anxiety still, it will soon float away, like the tide crawling back into the sea.

Theon’s breathing slows, almost frightfully so. 

Ramsay removes the pipe from those limp fingers, gaze catching on the stub of his ring finger. Heat flashes inside of him, a reminder of how his dog lost it. A reminder that Ramsay still owns a physical part of him, floating in a jar.

These are not the thoughts of a healthy man, Ramsay realizes distantly. Normal people don’t just keep souvenirs the way he does. A normal human would keep a portrait; Ramsay wants a _physical piece_.

Placing the pipe on the bedside table, out of harms way, where it can’t cause any damage, Ramsay hovers over Theon, like an ill omen. Those eyes are hazed with sleep, exhaustion.

“Are you still afraid?” His voice sounds soft, like a dream, even to his own ears. “Of what I might do to you?”

In slow motion, Theon blinks and sighs, face turning into the flattened pillow that his head rests upon. His hair, like a halo on the yellow stained pillowcase. “Mmm…no…”

His voice is slurred, far away. As if struggling to stay conscious.

A delightful roar of power surges into Ramsay’s being, infusing him with the sudden, excitable knowledge that truly, in this moment, he could do _anything_. He could cut into Theon, chop off all his fingers…and he likely wouldn’t move an inch. He’d _let_ him do it.

His dog has given up all control, knowing he’d handed himself over to Ramsay, who he knows to be capable of horror and violence.

The feeling of ownership returns, as does the reminder that he lost possession of his creature. Painful and sudden, these emotions slam into Ramsay. He doesn’t know how to cope with them, so he tries to push them away.

It’s easier to think of blood, guts, and screams. The way Theon sounds when he begs. It’s easier to remember what he can control, than to face what he cannot control. The feeling of chaos, of not controlling his pet…it feels sickly, like a slug worming through his guts, eating away at everything in its path. Eating all the shit. 

Unable to stop himself, he reaches out a hand to touch Theon’s hair, his breath catching in his throat as Theon, succumbing to his drug, slightly leans into his touch. For a moment, Ramsay doesn’t know what to think, how to feel, so he digs his fingers into Theon’s scalp roughly.

Just to remind him of who he’s dealing with, even in his drugged state. “Who do you belong to?”

“Y-you.”

A surge of warmth in his gut. But, it’s not enough. Ramsay jerks Theon’s hair a bit more, leaning his mouth against Theon’s ear. “Who?” He smells clean. He smells of Sansa’s perfume.

Ramsay’s throat tightens at the thought, stupidly green with envy. _Stupid stupid stupid-_

“Hmmm…” Theon’s drifting again. Falling into slumber. “L-Lord Ramsay…Bolton. Lord…Dreadfort…” Theon’s voice is a whisper, soft and smooth. Numb and distant.

There's no fear in his voice and it changes the way Theon sounds. There's no arrogance, no entitlement. Just a softness, so gentle that it strokes across Ramsay’s skin. So, this is what people speak of, soft whispers in bed with a lover, a gentle tone in the sheets. Something Ramsay has never experienced.

It bothers him and thrills him.

His wayward pet is sinking further into the awful mattress, a mattress that stinks and has seen far too much use. He mutters something as he drifts away, something that has Ramsay frowning. He didn't hear it, feels cheated, he wants to know what he said while unguarded like this. “What was that?”

Theon doesn’t respond. He’s out. A sleeping shell, numb to the world.

Ramsay chews at the inside of his mouth. It sounded suspiciously like _kill me,_ but his dog should know by now that Ramsay has absolutely no intention of ever killing him. His dog is dumb and is a slow learner, so he decides to ignore it for now.

_ {A gasping, weak sob. “Please…please just kill me.”} _

_ {A perfect square of flesh hangs in his fingers. It’s beautiful, the ink of the kraken black against the perfectly removed canvas. “What have I told you about that word? Ask me again, and I’ll make you live with something far worse.”} _

Spurred by a strange emotion, Ramsay pushes up Theon’s shirt, wanting to see his scars, the reminders of where Ramsay had been. A small noise escapes his throat as he gazes down at familiar flesh, covered in raised white marks.

Precise lines, placed with a steady hand and knife. A crude X carved over where his heart beats. Small, almost unnoticeable burn marks around his ribs. If Ramsay closes his eyes, he can almost remember what this familiar expanse looks like with bruises, stretched across these very ribs.

From this angle, Ramsay would have to roll Theon onto his stomach to see his whip marks, for none are on his chest. He didn’t want to make a mess of his front, for even he could begrudgingly admit that he rather admired the Greyjoy’s whipcord lean form.

Unable to stop himself, Ramsay crawls further onto the bed, harmlessly drawing his knife across Theon’s belly. Not a single flinch or shiver; the man is out cold and will be for some time. Ramsay has complete control, something that spurs him forward with his vile self-indulgent actions.

He doesn’t draw blood, though he briefly craves the idea of slicing open his belly, exposing his innards, holding his guts in his hands. To dig around inside of the object he so craves to possess, for feeling someone’s insides is certainly an intimate experience, is it not?

 _Perhaps that’s too extreme,_ Ramsay considers, eyes consuming everything. _He would probably die and I’d be left with **nothing**._

No, he doesn’t want to kill him. Not even a bit. Death is quite permanent, after all. Suffering is forever.

With a bare hand, Ramsay presses his palm flat against Theon’s stomach, feeling him. The heat of him, the sensation of him slowly breathing. He could control this again. It could all be his, under his power. Submissive. His slave, broken to his will.

He slides the knife further as his pale, heated gaze catches on a strange dark mark, peeking out from just under his breeches. Ramsay’s brow furrows, feeling suddenly off kilter. Using the blade, he pulls back the cloth just enough to see beneath, to inside the dip of Theon’s hipbone.

When he sees it, the mouth-shaped bruise, his knuckles creak ominously. His grip on the hilt of his blade goes white and he quickly sheathes it before he does something he regrets, feeling a wild, rampant sort of fury skate through his veins.

It’s fresh, naturally. _The mark_. Sansa likely put it there only hours earlier.

 _Accursed wench_ , he finds himself seething. His vision goes red and he tells himself to count to thirty, but when he passes thirty, he still doesn’t feel any better. His heart races uncomfortably in his chest and Ramsay doesn’t like how it feels, not one bit.

He feels hot and sick in a terrible wave.

His wife has marked what’s his and bile rises up in his throat. It’s unacceptable. It flies in the face of his dominance. It doesn’t _bloody_ matter that the woman doesn’t know, doesn’t understand that Theon is _his_. Ramsay feels horribly wronged, like a spoiled child.

Pulling at the breeches more, to fully expose the offending lovebite, Ramsay sneers hatefully. It’s one thing for his wife to be using Greyjoy’s body; it’s another entirely for her to _mark it_.

Staring at it, he feels his teeth ache, saliva filling his mouth. Absurdly, he wants to replace it, wants to cover it up with his own. To ruin what she’s done and make it his. He feels warm, his skin is too hot, his hands trembling stupidly. As if he’s somehow weak.

He’s leaning closer, eyes intent. He’d place his mouth over it, sink his teeth in, press his tongue against his skin to taste him. To remember that Theon is _his_. To break and harm, to mark however he pleases-

Then, he pauses. _You bloody nancy boy._

 _No_. He’s not putting his bloody mouth anywhere near Theon Greyjoy’s crotch and _sucking_. Not even to use his teeth to mark and gnaw.

With a hiss of disgust, Ramsay sits up and turns off the lanterns, dousing all the light in the room. He stalks over to the large lounge seat on the far side of the shoddy room. Throwing himself into it, he glowers at the sleeping form in the bed. What is happening to him?

Rubbing his eyes in frustration, he wonders if he’s losing his mind. _There are other ways to assert your dominance, you fool. And none of them require you to touch him with your mouth like some sort of ponce._

He ponders kidnapping the slippery bloke. It wouldn’t be a hard feat. He could have him back in his prison, make room in his damn office there. He’d have a hound kennel brought in, someplace to keep him until his training got reaffirmed.

In his mind, Ramsay can imagine using the brand on him, this time. In the shape of an ‘R’. It would be nice, he thinks, to place it somewhere low, below his navel. Somewhere he’d never be able to miss seeing it. Forever marked as Ramsay’s property, his submissive, well-trained hound.

Once more, his breathing shifts, becoming excited. His cock twitches with interest and he thinks of the collar he still has in his desk drawer, waiting to be placed about Theon’s neck where it belongs. Theon would put up a minor resistance to becoming a faithful creature, for a time. He would curse, hiss, and rebel, the way he used to. Ramsay would allow it, because violence thrills him.

There’s violence under Theon’s skin, it’s just _much harder_ to find. A wicked flash in those compelling eyes, hateful words on his tongue. The manipulative way he pretends to bend, if only to avoid pain. The way he won’t drop that ironclad pride. It must be that pirate blood.

They would struggle, certainly. Ramsay would win. He _always_ wins. No man is a match for his brutality, no man has a thirst for blood the way he does. His dog would be at his feet again, loyal, with eyes only for Ramsay. His Reek, forever and always.

His throat feels tight, hands shaking. His cock feels hard, swollen. 

By the end of his mental fantasy, Ramsay nearly convinces himself that abduction is _clearly_ the answer to all his problems.

Then, reality strikes him down.

 _Sansa would know it was you. There’s no way she’d let you get away with it._ Ramsay’s mood darkens further. _Spiteful, clever witch._

He’d have to find another way. Perhaps his dog could-

_No, you stupid fool. He’d never come to you willingly. Look what he’s been doing all this time; he’s been mounting your wife, as if you don’t even exist._

That bloody stings like a thousand needles. His erection flags.

He’s never hated himself more. How can he feel this way for such an insignificant piece of dung? Why does he feel this way? And more importantly, how can he make it stop?

_You’ll find a way. You always do._

His vision grows heavy with sleep as the hours pass. He should leave, he truly should. There’s no reason for him to stay in this den of whores and perverts…and yet he remains.

Ramsay drifts, comforted by the fact that his trophy is only a few feet away, for the first time in nearly a year.

The sound of Theon Greyjoy’s breathing is all he hears when sleep finally takes him.

*******

A sound wakes Ramsay. The room is still dark, full of the night breeze. Hazy, eyes still closed, Ramsay briefly wonders what he heard, still mostly out of it. His neck hurts; he fell asleep at an odd angle in the chair.

_The window-_

The sound of boots gently settling onto wood is loud enough to alert him to the fact that there’s danger. Without stirring, Ramsay opens his eyes slightly and finds himself wide awake with a sudden rush of adrenaline. He smells something new, something like tobacco and fish.

Someone else is in the room.

A man has entered in through the open window, wild hair and dressed like a typical corsair. A scoundrel has come and Theon is clearly his goal.

The unwanted guest quietly makes a beeline for the bed, to where Theon is still sleeping, completely under the thrall of the opium. Dead to the world and completely vulnerable to threats. For a moment, Ramsay feels mortified to realize that it bothers him, this realization.

_This sorry little bitch has been smoking opium in whorehouses, all while having someone out to kill him? Is he really that thick?_

The answer is likely _yes_.

Or worse. The answer could be _Theon doesn’t care_.

With the intent of the pirate being unknown, Ramsay slowly unfurls himself from his seat, like a spider. The man hasn’t noticed his presence yet, which is perfect. His mistake is Ramsay’s gain.

The dreadful smelling man reaches into his clothes as he stands over Theon. Ramsay isn’t about to let the sorry shit get shanked in his sleep, so he acts. No one is killing Greyjoy unless it’s Ramsay, so that isn’t going to be any time soon.

Slinking up from behind, Ramsay places his blade at the intruder’s throat. The man goes still, tensing under the sharp edge against his flesh. “I’d step back if I were you,” Ramsay hisses lowly. “Or you might gain a new smile, yeah?”

The fish smelling man steps backwards as Ramsay presses with his blade, guiding him back from the sleeping form. “Wot’s it tah ya? ‘e paid ya, didn’t ‘e? Jus walk out tha door. Forgit ya saw anythin’.”

Is…is he implying what Ramsay thinks he’s implying? Scowling, Ramsay replies lowly, “Does my knife against your throat give you the impression that I’m a whore? You bloody shit.” He nicks the man, makes sure to draw a small line of blood to prove his point. “Tell me what you’re doing here. Now.”

The pirate tries to look at Ramsay over his shoulder, his interest piqued. “Wot’s tha Captain’s laddie to ya? Ya given it ta ‘im or does tha laddie give it tah ya?”

Ramsay’s glad it’s dark, because he flushes at the image the insinuation brings to mind, of Theon on hands and knees, chest pressed to the floor, ass presented. He fights to push the troubling images away. _You’re disgusting, you’re pathetic for wanting that sorry sack of bones, he’s nothing but meat, nothing but a dog for you to control._

_Sansa likes him well enough, doesn’t she?_

_Does he actually take her? Or does she ride him while he lies on his back, with his expression submissive, eyes like the depths of the sea while he mentally judges every single sigh and moan, like the manipulative, arrogant shit he is-_

He feels his teeth grind together. Bites his tongue to feel pain, to fix his brain. He comes back to the other part of what this smelling bastard said. _The Captain’s laddie? The fuck you say?_ “I’ll be given it to you with my blade in a moment if you don’t answer me, scum.”

Pressing the blade against the other man harder, Ramsay finally elicits an answer from him.

“Tha Captain has a message for tha laddie. ‘E wants his boy back, ya see. Euron will be mighty interested tah ‘ear bout ya.”

“Give me the message and get the blazing hells out of this room before I gut you and string your guts up like party decorations.”

The pirate chuckles, oddly amused. “Wanna join tha crew? We always be needin’ men like yerself. I'm sure tha Captain won't mind tha laddie havin' ya as a matelot.”

 _The hell is a matelot?_ Jaw clenched precariously, Ramsay growls as softly as he can, “Give. Me. The Bloody. Message.”

The man opens his hand and holds it outward, allowing a wrapped parchment paper to flutter to the ground. “Give it tah tha laddie. Or I’ll be back.”

Spinning him to the window, Ramsay throws him against the sill, pointing and cocking his pistol at the man with snakelike precision. “ _Leave_. Don’t think I won’t blow your dull brains out all over this fucked place. It might even make the wallpaper look better.”

The man grins, missing nearly all of his teeth. There are gold and silver replacements for a few, glittering in the darkness. His wild hair is greasy, full of fish oils and beads that jingle softly with his movements. Holding his hands up in a show of surrender, the pirate climbs back out the way he came, leaving Ramsay to watch him stride slowly into a nearby alley.

Angry, feeling like an otherwise fine night just got ruined, Ramsay turns to the rolled parchment on the floor. Putting his pistol away, sheathing his dagger, he picks up the parchment and reads it beside the open wide, using the moonlight to read the surprisingly fine scrawl.

_/The moons have come and gone, as have the rolls of the tide. Your presence is missed dearly. By your brother especially. You know how he feels about taking your punishments._

_You can’t run forever, nephew. You’ll join me, as all your siblings have. Eddard Stark can dress you as a gentleman, but your blood is mine. You belong in my collection._

_This is your last warning, boy. I grow tired of waiting._

_Join me willingly…or return as my slave, kicking and screaming. You will make a fine whipping boy, I think. Your choice/_

Ramsay crumples the note furiously. So, Euron Greyjoy thinks he can yank Theon back, is that it? He gazes down at the sleeping figure in the bed and curses Theon’s terrible luck. Does nothing ever go right where Greyjoy’s are concerned? Seems like a strong bloody _no_.

Placing the note by the pipe on the bedside table, Ramsay looks at the object of all his recent dilemmas. Theon still sleeps soundly, his breathing heavy and deep.

Ramsay takes one last look at him and sighs as he memorizes the lines of his face. He’ll find a way to keep him, somehow. Sansa…well. He’ll deal with that obstacle later. She’ll want to talk about gross things, like _feelings_ and _rules_ and Ramsay isn’t in the mood for any of that garbage.

_First thing first. Eradicate the rat._

Slipping out the window, Ramsay pulls up his hood and dashes into the alley he saw the pirate slip into. Crouching down low, he catches sight of a familiar footprint style, a boot shape often in line with seafaring men.

With care, like a wolf deep in a hunt, Ramsay tracks his prey, a low anger boiling in his belly. This is what he’s good at, if nothing else. Hunting. Tracking the footprints towards the direction of the wharf, Ramsay grins grimly.

The scent of the sea carries to him soon enough, the ships floating in the distance. The criminal likely came in on a smaller row boat, his main ship not coming closer to enemy waters. When Ramsay finally catches sight of the man once more, the sun has begun to rise in the sky, red against the black of night. Chasing it away.

No one is around. At least no one that matters.

Coming up behind the pirate as he uncovers some small little rowboat, Ramsay stabs him sharply, just under the armpit, snarling as he does so. The man exhales hard, strangled, his lung punctured out. He steps away from Ramsay, clutching at himself, black eyes wide and full of recognition upon seeing his attacker.

Ramsay grins, holding up his dagger. “I’m not a fan of loose ends, it seems. Sorry.”

Before the man can say a word, Ramsay descends upon him like a bear, slashing and disemboweling him until the man lies sprawled, rotting flesh and meat, guts leaking everywhere. He rips and tears, red filling his vision, bones and organs, until he feels normal, until he feels alright again.

The stench of the man losing his bowels is rancid, but expected.

Panting roughly, Ramsay smiles and steps backwards, his arms bloody up to his elbow, blood sprayed across his face. He walks to the water and leans over, looking at his own monstrous reflection. He’s going to be expected at home soon, he realizes vaguely. The household will soon begin to rise.

He splashes water onto his face, cleaning himself off. The sounds of sailors waking, peasants starting their early work, filtering into his ears. Time to go.

Feeling vindicated and energized, Ramsay strolls back to the Dreadfort, whistling a tune in perfect key.

_I’ll take him back. He’ll belong to me again and no bloody uncle or adventuress wife is going to stand in my way.  
  
  
_

* * *

* * *

  
  
_There’s a knock at his office door. Skinner pokes his head in, a shadowed look in his dark eyes. “Lord Stark is here to see you, in the courtyard.”_

_Ramsay blinks at him. A flash of worry snakes through his gut. “It’s been months, what’s he doing here now?”_

_“Beats me.” Skinner shrugs. “Either he just found out Greyjoy’s being held here or he’s convinced the court that the dog deserves to be set loose.”_

_His jaw clenches terribly hard and Ramsay feels his fingers gripping the edge of his desk too tightly. “I don’t suppose you can tell him I’m not available, do you?”_

_“’fraid not.”_

_Grimacing, Ramsay nods his dismissal. “I’ll be with him shortly.”_

_When Skinner leaves the room, closing the door behind him, Ramsay explodes, emotions spilling outward in a mess._

_“ **Blast it** ,” Ramsay hollers. “Bloody curses upon that upright cunt.”_

_He’s here to take his creation away. He’s come to take his dog._

_His face feels warm, blood pounding in his temple. A hurricane whirls in his mind, out of control. He doesn’t like having his things taken from him. It’s not right, it’s not right, **he can’t do this**._

_When Ramsay finally gets ahold of himself, barely in line, he rights his clothing, fixes his hair, and marches off to meet his father-in-law. The esteemed Lord Eddard Stark. The good and pure, honorable Lord Eddard Stark._

_It makes Ramsay want to vomit._

_“Lord Stark,” he says with false warmth as he catches sight of Eddard’s familiar shape in the courtyard. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”_

_The stern man turns to face him slowly, face long and drawn. Always serious. Very much like Ramsay’s father, except…a much kinder man. A ‘better’ man, if one must make mention. His top hat is elegant, of the finest making, his deep black tailcoat bearing the crest of the Stark house. The cravat at his throat artfully knotted and pale white. His tall boots have mud on them, the sign of a man not afraid to walk his lands, and his breeches are dark, to hide dirt. Eddard Stark, a man of commitment and sense._

_Those solemn eyes catch on Ramsay, taking in his bearing. Missing nothing. Not the subtle clench of Ramsay’s jaw. Not the way Ramsay hides his hands behind his back, fists clenched viciously. Not the icy look in his eyes, the way his smile never reaches them. Eddard says calmly, “I think we both know why I’m here, unfortunately.”_

_Giving a short little half-laugh, Ramsay looks about, uncomfortable. “I’m afraid I don’t. I have many criminals here, Lord Stark. Do you have another you would like me to add to the roster, by chance? I can be accommodating, for family.”_

_The man is unmoved, something close to mistrust and disappointment on his face. “I’m here for my foster son. Theon Greyjoy. It has come to my attention that he was placed here for interrogation about Euron Greyjoy, a man whom he has never conspired with. He’s to be set free.”_

_Swallowing thickly, holding down the monster that wants to come forth, Ramsay says, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. He’s a criminal, as you might have heard. He’s still under suspicion-”_

_“Immediately, Ramsay.”_

_Ramsay shuts his mouth, halting the weak excuses. He can see they won’t work and it makes him want to scream like a spoiled brat. His eyes search about as he wildly thinks of another way to head this off. As Ramsay opens his mouth once more, Eddard sharply cuts him off, no longer interested in the dog and pony show._

_“As my son by law, I expect you to obey me in this. Let him go home, where he belongs. He’s not a criminal. He’s just lost. I will speak with him and all will be fine. The court has granted it.” He holds forth a rolled parchment._

_Ramsay doesn’t even want to take it, feeling sick._

_It feels like stones are piling in his stomach. “Well. That will be difficult, considering he’s…a little indisposed.”_

_Collared and eating from the floor, crawling like a dog. Full of wounds and scars. Some minor toes newly removed._

_Eddard frowns deeply, looking more displeased than a thousand angry nuns. “Send him to the military hospital. Let him recuperate. Whatever you’ve done, it ends now, Ramsay.” He pauses and gives him a disapproving gaze. “Your energies are better spent at home, taking care of my daughter. It’s unbefitting a man of your status to be here, getting your hands dirty all the time.”_

_Mouth working with displeasure, tongue tracing the backs of his teeth, Ramsay says with razorblades in his mouth, “Of course, my Lord. You’re right. Naturally.”_

_Bloody prick._

_Not for the first time, Ramsay imagines stabbing him repeatedly._

_If only murdering your wife’s father wasn’t so terribly frowned upon…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN:** Comments and kudos are loved!! You know they motivate me ♥  
> especially with all this darn stress I'm under right now, send love UGH.
> 
>   
> HOLY SHIT THO. Definitely not going to end in 8 chapters. Heck, I'll probably be lucky if it ends in 10. Crap, I tell you. Anywho, shit is getting cray with this intriguing blend of Regency/Georgian/Pirate shizz going on. I didn't expect to have so much plot coming forth, I literally just planned on smut, but I guess...we get plot with smut. Huzzah.   
> Anyway: some general notes:
> 
> *Good Old Eddie makes a snide comment about Ramsay working with his hands and doing dirty work, like it's a bad thing. A gentleman was not expected to work with his hands or do anything laborious. This is why surgeons were actually not considered gentlemanly, but Physician's were considered quiet gentlemanly, as they only diagnosed a patient and wrote prescriptions. So, basically, Ned is making a comment about Ramsay being a bit of...well...a commoner. 
> 
> *Matelot! The pirate makes mention that he doesn't think Euron will care if his nephew were to bring along his 'friend' to join the crew and be his matelot. What is a matelot you say? Well, I'll tell you. A Matelotage was basically a 'marriage' between two pirates during the 17th century and on. The two would be partnered for protection of wealth; if one were to die, the other would retain his assets legally. It was considered a personal and professional engagement. If you would like to read about this a bit more, I can point you to fabulous fiction books that are unbelievably written, dark, emotional, and some kinda sexy that I've read on this subject matter. Never thought I needed to read about gay pirates, but there we have it. 
> 
> I'm sure more notes will come to mind later, but just wanted to get those out. The work weeks have been getting nutty with the new job, the training is absolutely rigorous and my stress levels are out the roof right now T.T my poor brain! I've become an indie perfume addict, literally, I can't stop buying this shit, but it makes me so happy to have a sniff XD I'm legit surprised I'm not writing about cardamom and dragon's blood right about now.


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